


Shadow on the Run

by jawsandbones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Ballroom Dancing, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fanart, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Gore warning, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Sirens, Smut, Templars (Dragon Age), Vampires, Violence, Werewolves, Witches, blood warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-06-08 06:39:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 81,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6843289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawsandbones/pseuds/jawsandbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are monsters that hide under your bed, in your closet, under the stairs. Those things that go bump in the night? They wait around the corner. If only you had someone to protect you. A late Victorian-era re-imagining of Dragon Age 2, focusing on Hawke and Fenris. </p><p>He tells himself that he should be killing witches, not making deals with them. He has grown weak in his desperation. He will use this witch, he will kill Danarius, and then he will root out the rest of the infection in the city. He already knows a witch to start with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hunter

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [ @jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/). You can also [check out my Patreon!](https://www.patreon.com/jawsandbones)

They will come for him tonight, of that he is sure. They will come for him out of the dark, out of the shadows and the little places all the lost things hide. He is ready. He will not run this time, instead, he will fight. The gentle sounds of summer are louder here, made so by his focus. He can hear the trot of a horse in the distance, the carriage bouncing on the cobblestones behind it. Some late night party-goer returning home, no doubt. There is the rustle of the wind in the trees, the scurrying of rodents and the like, and crickets in the distance. He sits on the park bench and listens, and waits.

The lamplighter has come and gone, and the path around the park is lit by the soft glow of candlelight. He made sure to sit under one of the lights, he has no more reason to hide. When someone does come, it is not who he is expecting. A woman walks the length of the park path, going from light to light, her heels clicking on the stones below. She walks with her head held high and her shoulders squared, an umbrella in her hands and a hat on her head. She pauses in front of him, a smirk on her face, and sits down next to him.

She smooths the front of her walking suit, an elegant grey thing that was clearly expensive. The sleeves are puffy and there is velvet on the collar, a row of silver buttons lining the front. It is long, and he can only barely see the black dress that hides underneath. The umbrella is on her lap, held in gloved hands. There are flowers in her hat, beautiful white lilies which he can smell from where he is sitting. He can see the raven hair underneath, curled and coiffed, the opposite of her ivory skin. “Such a glorious evening, don’t you think? Never enough people truly appreciate it. I am fond of walking this path alone, and seeing no one, so imagine my surprise when I see a gentleman here,” she says to him, her voice sure and confident, and the smirk still on her lips.

He is sure she knows he is not a gentleman. His brown leather shoes are scuffed and dirty, his trousers fairing little better. They at least had no holes in them, of which he could not say for his collared shirt. That is at least hidden by the vest, buttons freshly resewn, and all of them mismatched. His coat is the best thing he owns, and it is a heavy thing, it is dark and cloaks him fully, hiding the gun on his belt. “This is no safe place for a lady,” he says gruffly and she only chuckles lightly.

“I am aware. I had to stop, however, at how curious you are. Such a unique hair color, and those markings? Why, I knew we simply had to be friends,” she says, evaluating him in a glance. He feels suddenly bothered, under the piercing gaze of her blue eyes. The dark powder around her eyes only made them seem even brighter, even sharper. He was aware how he stood out, what with his silver hair, almost white. The markings on his chin he could not hide like the others, such pale twisted lines against darker olive skin. He was no thing to be gawked at and moved to rise. Perhaps they would not come tonight.

“Now, now, leaving so soon?” The point of her long umbrella taps against the stones as she speaks, her hands on its hilt. “But _Serah Fenris_ , we’ve only just become acquainted,” she says slyly, her voice lowering dangerously. He whirls to face her, and she is already on her feet, standing and waiting under the light, umbrella hooked around her wrist. The shadow from her hat does not hide that smile, or those eyes. His coat is already parted, he keeps it unbuttoned always for easy access, and his hand is on his gun.

“That’s hardly necessary,” she says, knowing exactly where his hand rests, “not against me.”

“Who are you?” He demands, and his hand does not leave his gun. In truth, he circles it with his finger, feeling cold metal and leather, a comforting feel that fights against the madness he cannot quite define just yet. She feels like the air before a storm – unpredictable, and dangerous. She smirks at his question.

“You may call me Hawke. There’ll be time for proper introductions later. They are coming, but I will protect you, fear not,” she says, drawing the thin sword that hides in her umbrella. True to her word, he can see the figures in the dark behind her. Creeping things, which hunch and crawl and skitter towards them. Things that walk on all fours like beasts, limbs creaking and turning, teeth snapping in their heads. Twisted creatures that hide under your bed at night, follow in the shadow of your silhouette, and become the chill upon your neck. They have hair like his, and eyes that gleam with red in the light.

Two women stand beside him, ones that Hawke nods at with familiarity. The red-head cradles a large double-barreled shotgun in her arms, and aims it at their prey. The other, a darker woman adorned with gold piercings, holds two revolvers and licks her lips at him, winking. They face the monsters before them, who draw ever nearer. They whisper and hiss, not to the women, but to him. _Slave, slave, slave_. Not any longer. When he fires, the back of one of the creature’s skulls explodes in blood. It is the shot that breaks the silence, the two women firing beside him. Hawke stands behind them, and smiles.

They pay no mind to the others that fall beside them and the creatures still advance, having no other weapons but the fangs in their mouths and the sharpened nails upon their fingers. Hardy creatures, it takes multiple shots to slow their advance. When they grow close enough for Hawke to frown, she gives a small whistle. As though time as stopped, the creatures stop in their tracks. Another woman passes him, small and skinny, tattoos upon her face and a cold air about her. She is dressed all in white, and holds a meat cleaver in her hands.

Together they make quick work of the rest, who fall without a cry, and the white dress becomes stained red. This Hawke keeps the company of witches. A night-witch no less, who pushes a creature to its knees and holds the cleaver to its neck. She asks Hawke if she should kill it. Hawke moves to stand in front of the creature, who used to be human. No doubt someone with a loving family, a job and a home. They are nothing now, vermin like rats, to be exterminated without mercy. Hawke asks where its master is.

The creature hisses and snarls and the night-witch pulls her magic tighter, stilling it. “No matter,” Hawke says, “I will find him without your help.” She points her sword to its breast and pushes. Such a tiny needle, poking tiny holes, into a heart that stops beating. She wipes her blade on the creature’s clothes, before the night-witch releases it and it falls to the ground in a slump. Hawke sheathes her blade and then turns to him.

“Now then, I believe we were speaking?” The two women go from his side to hers, flanking her like guardians. “We can be beneficial for each other, Serah Fenris. We seek the same goals.” It does not matter what they offer. He would not associate with a night-witch. Who knew what other monsters Hawke kept in her repertoire? He would not be one of them, someone to collect.

“I want no part of _this_ ,” Fenris says, waving his hand at them. Hawke chuckles.

“I thought you might say that. Unfortunately, we need you.” The night-witch peers at him from behind Hawke, bloodied fingers on a bloody weapon, and when he looks at her face, her eyes are as black as the spell she casts over him. He slumps into darkness, and the last thing he sees is Hawke standing over him.

When he wakes, he is bound to a chair by heavy chains around his wrists and ankles. This place they have him is dark and damp, a cellar of some sort. Hawke sits before him, behind a table, smiling as she shuffles cards. The coat, the umbrella and her hat are not with her here. Neither are her gloves. Instead, he sees the black dress she is wearing – high collared, with sleeves that end in flared lace just below her elbow, and a layered skirt that suggests it could be red if one looked hard enough.

The candle flickers light on her face, and those blue eyes of hers do not leave his face. Even as she spreads the cards face-down in a half circle before her, and keeps her hands above them, she continues to study him. “I do apologize, for bringing you here without a proper invitation. There is much we need to discuss and it was clear you did not want to listen,” she tells him. She pulls cards at seemingly random, and keeps them face-down. He says nothing to her, and eyes the doorway behind her and the small barred windows to his left. On his right are dusty shelves filled with equally dusty bottles and vials, filled with oddly colored liquids. He tests the chains and finds them tight, digging cold metal into his skin. They will not bend for him. But the wooden chair he sits on? The weak link.

“You and I, we hunt the same thing. Your former master, Danarius,” she has her hands over the cards she has pulled, as if she were holding them above water, about to test the temperature. “We seek to kill him, as you do. We can help each other with this.”

“I will not work with a witch,” he snarls but she only smiles at his acid.

“Did Merrill frighten you? Apologies but she really is as sweet as a honey bee. Surely you wouldn’t give mercy to the monsters that Danarius creates? Such sad things, much better off in the Void.” Without wind, and without moving her hands, one of the cards that she has selected twists sideways. “And I,” she smiles as she holds the card between fingers, “am even sweeter.” Two witches. He would not be the captive of two witches.

It is an easy thing, to break the chair and free himself from its grasp. She stands as he quickly steps backwards over his bound wrists and he is free to lunge towards her, hands outstretched. He pushes her against the wall, a hand on her neck, fingertips digging into soft flesh. He feels her heartbeat underneath his thumb. Her expression has not changed, and she looks at him with cold amusement. “Tell me why I should not kill you where you stand, _witch_ ,” he snarls to her.

“You know you cannot reach him on your own. When we catch him, and we will, you can have the honor of pulling his heart from his chest,” she says and holds the card up, still between her fingertips. “The wheel of fortune. A shift in your destiny.” The card is macabre, as dark as her dress and painted with things of angels and demons. The wheel sits in the center, directionless and spinning.

His every attempt to find Danarius thus far had failed. Instead, Danarius had more success in hunting him. How long had he been running with nothing to show for it? It needed an end, Danarius needed to meet his end, and he was so tired. “We things that go bump in the night must stick together, yes?” She says as she smiles, seeing through him utterly. “Oh yes, I know what you are.” He releases her, and she rubs at her neck and the release of pressure.

“Fear not, your secret is safe with me. As I assume mine is with you,” she fishes a key from her pocket and holds it up before him. He presents his wrists to her and allows the shackles to fall to the floor. She gives the key to him so that he may release himself from the shackles on his feet. He considers running. This woman, this Hawke, did not reek of a night-witch. They were not so subtle with their magic. A day-witch then, still innocent of a demons power. All it would take was one word, one whispered prayer, and she would turn.

“What manner of witch are you? What is it that you seek?” In his experience, all witches sought more power. It was never enough for them, always more, more, more. They would take it wherever they could find it, and it had been taken from him before. Never again.

“You want me to tell you and spoil all the fun?”

“Whether you are anything like the witches I have met before remains to be seen. If you become a night-”

“I will not,” she says with a small measure of anger, as if appalled he could ever suggest such a thing. She defends herself so quickly, taking such offence, that for a moment Fenris could almost believe her. Everyone has good intentions before they fall. She holds the card out to him, and he knows that if he takes it that there will be no turning back. Accepting it means accepting help from a witch. Accepting it means he is one step closer to ripping the throat from Danarius’s neck. When he takes the card, she smiles.

“Excellent. We’ve had your things moved from the Hanged Man to my estate, here. We can’t have you living in a tavern,” she says as she moves up the steps towards the door. She waves after him and he follows her, annoyed that she was so sure of his answer before he was even conscious. The door opens to a kitchen, and he sees that the red-haired woman is seated beside the door. She regards him warily, before looking at Hawke.

“Fenris, this is Aveline,” Hawke says as Aveline stands. She is dressed like he is, albeit her clothes are more expensive and in much better condition. She has a gun belt around her waist and with the shotgun he saw before, the woman is a walking weapon. She checks the time on her pocket watch before slipping it back into her vest.

“Took you long enough,” Aveline says dryly to Hawke. “Good to meet you Fenris. Welcome to the circus.” Aveline extends her hand and when he takes it, her grip is rough and sure. Fingers are calloused, evidence of a history of violence or perhaps just heavy work. She seems almost familiar, and when Aveline grabs her coat and he sees the crest upon it, the pieces click together. The guard-Captain of Kirkwall – the ultimate connection in the police. Assured that Fenris will not kill Hawke, Aveline takes her leave, going back to her own home.

Hawke leads him up a grand staircase, towards a room she calls his. He can see his paltry things in a corner, while on the bed are new things for him, fresh clothing. “How long have you been planning this?” He asks her while he holds up a shirt. Tailored, specifically for him.

“We tend to keep our ears to the ground. When the bounty on you rolled in, well, we couldn’t resist,” she smirks. “We have made sure others do not hear of it, don’t you worry.”

“You say we – who is we?”

“All in good time. You’ve met Aveline, of course, and we have others in places of position. Places of information. All flowing to us.” Hawke stands in the doorway, not intruding on his space. She already knows she’s intruded enough. He is grateful, coin has never come easy to him and therefore he never had the luxury of buying things for himself. That the bounty on his head has also been taken care of is a weight off his shoulders. A display of power then, to show what her partnership can do for him. The only question was what she wanted in return. People did not do things like this out of goodwill.

Hawke cocks her head at him curiously as he looks at her with a glare. “You said you needed me. Why?”

“That depends how much you wish to know about how much we know about you,” she says simply, her hands folded in front of her. The shirt drops back onto the bed as he crosses his arms, eyebrow up, expectant and waiting.

“We know you were Danarius’s bodyguard. You were with him for quite some time, always by his side. The fact that he placed the bounty on you meant that you did not leave amicably. There were rumors that you were less a bodyguard, more a slave,” her gaze does not falter as she speaks, always looking him in the eye. Too many before her could not manage that. When Danarius would present him as a slave, all would drop their eyes and look elsewhere. “The bounty is to capture you, not to kill you. He wants you back. That he is even sending his creatures after you, risking their discovery to the general population, means he wants you back _badly_.”

“So I am to be bait.”

“Do you object?”

“I have tried, before, to make myself noticeable. He does not leave his den, wherever that may be in Kirkwall.”

“You just need to attend the right parties,” she says as she smirks. He does not smile with her. It infuriates him, how flippantly she treats the situation. Danarius is dangerous, far more dangerous than she could ever be and she thinks the key to trapping him is the right parties?

“You know what he is?” Fenris says flatly, seriously, re-evaluating throwing himself in with this group of Hawke’s. To her credit, she does turn serious at this, stepping into his room, closing the distance between them.

“I know that he is a vampire, new to this city. My city. He infects the streets, creates his thralls and kills innocent people. He is a plague, an infection that must be rooted out. He must be killed. Do not doubt me in this Fenris,” she tells him, placing a hand on his shoulder. That hand drifts upwards, to touch lightly a lock of snowy hair.

“A casual observation, if you would allow me. Your hair is white, like the thralls he has claimed. He tried, didn’t he, to make you one?” She asks, removing her hand as quickly as it had come, dropping it back in front of her, entwining it with the other.

“He did. My – ah – nature stopped it.”

“You’re sure you’re not one of them?”

“You know I’m not,” he says gruffly, irritated. He can still feel Danarius’s teeth on his neck, the agony of the bite and the poison that followed. She looks at him quietly, always evaluating, always looking for some answer he isn’t giving her.

“I know,” she says, “but do you?” She bids him a goodnight, telling him that her room is just down the hall, opposite of his. He should not hesitate to help himself to food, or whatever else he might wish. Her home is now his, and he should treat it as such. They will continue the conversation in the morning, with clearer heads.

He hears the click of her heels growing further away, before hearing her door close behind her. He stumbles back to sit on the bed, sinking into the softness of it, and kicks off his boots. He stares at his hands, and the tattoos upon them, and tells himself that he should be killing witches, not making deals with them. He has grown weak in his desperation. He will use this witch, he will kill Danarius, and then he will root out the rest of the infection in the city. He already knows two witches to start with.


	2. Organs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You enjoy being hunted?” He asks as he raises an eyebrow, squeezing her hand and her waist a little tighter. She looks at him impishly, a sly smile drawing across her face.  
> “It depends on who is doing the hunting,” she tells him a low and suggestive tone.

“Forgive me Father, I hear it calling to me again.” Even though Hawke is speaking in a low, hushed tone, Fenris can still hear the utter fatigue behind her words. He moves back into the shadow of the landing at the top of the staircase, not wishing to descend just yet. “It hunts me still.” At the bottom of the stairs, in front of the entrance doors, Hawke is speaking to a man in priest’s robes. She does not look quite so severe as last night, standing in a white lace blouse, which is tucked into a dark high-waisted skirt. Still elegant, still squaring her shoulders, she is no less confident in her pose. Even if fingers play absentmindedly with a loose strand of hair which has fallen from its styled nest. Her eyes are still powdered darkly, lips stained with red and her other hand is wrapped in the priests embrace.

“Fear not my lady, keep to the light and you will overcome this. You have before,” the priest tells her in a melodic Starkhaven accent. He seems sincere in his words, and he is looking at her with such warmth. Hawke is unconvinced by his words and withdraws her hand from his hold. Her fingers knit together, and her brows furrow in a moment of hesitation and weakness. That look is gone as quickly as it had appeared, and she straightens again, looking determined.

“It grows more difficult with each attempt,” Hawke says, “but I shall endeavor to persevere.” The priest smiles warmly, and claps a hand to her shoulder. They talk about much more mundane things for a few moments, before the priest has his hand on the doorknob and is disappearing out into the street. Hawke closes the door behind him and clicks the multiple locks into place.

“Serah Fenris, if you’re quite finished eavesdropping, breakfast will be served in the dining room,” Hawke says without so much as a glance at the stairs, her heels clicking on the hardwood floors as she walks away. He had dressed in some of the clothes she had given him, and he couldn’t help but play with the scarf knotted around his neck. He felt uneasy, as though he were dressed in strangers’ clothes, finery that felt too much like what Danarius had provided him. The similarity made his skin itch.

The walls of her estate were mostly empty, save for a few portraits. All were strangers to him, but bore a resemblance to Hawke. That dark hair, those blue eyes, all seemed to possess it. Her family then. A family he had not seen any sign of anywhere in the estate. Hawke was seated at the head of the dining table, the room lit brilliantly by natural light, windows large and clear. Hawke was smiling with a newspaper in her hands, fingertips tapping the rim of a china tea cup.

In this light, he could see the freckles that delicately covered her face, spots made by the flick of a paintbrush upon an ivory canvas. She put the newspaper down as Fenris sat beside her, his hands folded together on top of the table. “That was Father Sebastian, from the Chantry. So many good Andrastians like to make regular confession. He slips us the pertinent information.”

“Is that what you were doing? Confessing?”

“Why serah, don’t you know confessions are sacred secret things?” Hawke laughs in a mocking tone. He grumbles, and his hand slips into the pocket of his vest, turning his watch with his fingers. Hawke has her paws in the guard, the Chantry and what else? Friends in places of information indeed. Even though she had all of this, she still had not yet caught Danarius. The vampire which had followed _him_. Whatever reasons Hawke had for chasing Danarius, it was Fenris who had brought him to Kirkwall. He wondered if she knew.

A set of doors to the room open, and there stands the night-witch, breathless and with a smudge of dirt on her face. She is in all white again, this time unblemished by blood. Her hair is short and loose, knotted with small braids. Part of the Dalish, the tattoos cover her face utterly. What was a Dalish doing inside a city? No doubt cast out for being a witch. She is all lace and sweet smiles, and if not for her performance last night, one wouldn’t guess the killer she hid inside her. Fenris reached instinctively for the gun he usually had on his belt, and cursed himself for leaving it in his room.

Hawke looks at him dryly as the night-witch practically bounces over to Hawke’s side, sitting opposite of Fenris. “Good morning Merrill,” Hawke says to the night-witch sweetly. “Ah Fenris, did I not mention? She lives in the estate with us.” Hawke sips her tea and smiles. Oh yes, that is something she definitely neglected to mention. He forces himself to relax in the chair, and regards the two of them warily. A short and sturdy man enters shortly after Merrill, face covered by a stately beard, and a large platter in his hands. He slides the platter in front of Hawke. It carries three plates and utensils, as well as a feast of eggs, bacon and muffins.

“Mistress Hawke, would you like more tea?”

“No, thank you Bodahn.” He echoes his question around the table, both Merrill and Fenris turning him down as well. He gives a sharp and low bow to Hawke before exiting the room, the door clicking closed behind him. Hawke gets started immediately, taking a plate and filling it full with food. Merrill does the same, leaving Fenris with whatever is left. Merrill is watching him shyly as she eats, stolen and subtle glances, and he scowls at her.

“You missed Sebastian this morning,” Hawke tells Merrill in between bites, a knife in her hand. The Dalish witch looks disappointed, sticking out her bottom lip in a pout.

“I wanted to see if he could get me more holy water,” Merrill whines and Hawke laughs. She reaches into the pockets of her skirt and takes out a vial, presenting it to Merrill before pushing it towards her. She snaps it up greedily, grinning at both it and Hawke.

“You asked for me! Thank you Hawke! I’ll be testing it on the mirror later if you want to come see.”

“I would love to sweetheart, but unfortunately Serah Fenris and I will be pre-occupied. Sebastian brought a gift for me as well. News of a party tonight, with some Tevinter diplomats attending.” Fenris grips his fork and knife a little harder as Hawke flicks her eyes over towards him. No doubt looking to gauge his reaction. He does his best to give her none. He is pinned under her gaze and he throws down his utensils in frustrating, wiping his hands on the napkin provided. So he is to be paraded around again, from party to party, just as Danarius had done.

“Fenris will be most helpful in pointing out which attendees are the ones we are searching for, hmm? As well, you need to be acquainted with the players of the game in Kirkwall,” she says as she leans over, fingers touching the scarf at his neck. “The green one tonight perhaps? To go with your eyes.” Her hand retreats, but her smile remains. He scowls and tucks the scarf back into place. She chuckles, pulling the newspaper back in front of her. No article about abominations dead in the park. No doubt taken away by other creatures. Danarius was nothing if not discreet. He’d know by now that Fenris had help.

“Mistress Hawke, Master Tethras has arrived,” Bodahn’s entrance is silent and abrupt, and he patiently awaits her reply. Hawke smiles and asks Bodahn to show him to the dining room. So he is to meet another one of Hawke’s associates. Merrill claps her hands together when the man enters, crying out with a delighted hello. The man is short, but stoutly built, with well-worn shoes and pants, an unbuttoned shirt and a coat that seems to have been thrice patched. A working man then. Fenris notes the glint of a gold earring and suspects that this man is wealthier than he seems.

“Hello Daisy,” he says as he plants a kiss on Merrill’s cheek to elicit a giggle from her. “Hawke,” he greets her with a smile and a nod, before setting himself beside Merrill. He slides an envelope towards her, saying “heard you needed some invitations.” Hawke rifles through the envelope as the man reaches forward and grabs one of the last slices of bacon. He tells her that all the details she needs are in there, location, host, notable guests and all the rest.

“Wonderful Varric. You are a miracle-worker,” Hawke says as she folds the envelope to tuck it into the pocket of her skirt. “Will you be attending?”

“And subject myself to that group? Maker no. You and Fenris here can have that honor,” Varric says as he nods at Fenris from across the table. Of course he knew who Fenris was. How long had they been watching him, waiting for the perfect moment to collect him? It was no coincidence Hawke found him on a night when he was attacked. The back of his neck shuddered with gooseflesh to think how many eyes had been upon him. If he had missed her eyes, then who else had he missed?

Danarius could have reached out and been so close – would Fenris have known it? Was it because he was under surveillance by Hawke and the others that Danarius kept his distance? Wasted time looking for him, because of the interference by the people at this table. He stood abruptly, the anger scratching at his chest. All eyes flicked toward him, but Hawke said nothing as he left. Instead she turned back to Varric, questioning him on the other guests who might be attending the party that evening.

Fenris wandered Hawke’s estate aimlessly, finding his way into the garden. It was filled with flowers and trees, and colors the like he’d never seen before. It was vibrant and full but not overgrown, and it was clear that someone had cultivated it tenderly. Merrill entered the garden behind him, barefoot in the grass. “It’s beautiful isn’t it? Hawke let me add some of my own,” she said and Fenris whirled to face her. She presented her empty hands in a gesture of peace, but kept her distance.

“Hawke is ever so lovely. If she says she’ll help you, she will. She said we should be nice to you, even if you aren’t to us. She says you need kindness the most out of all of us,” Merrill says as she trails a hand over flowers. She finds an injured butterfly, a glittering thing of orange and black, one wing broken in half. Merrill cups the butterfly in her hands, and Fenris watches as the wing begins to grow back. It flies away, over the walls of the estate, and Merrill smiles as it goes. “Hawke needs kindness too.” Just like that Merrill leaves, feet stained by grass and dirt.

He can hear Hawke’s laughter when he re-enters the house, and he follows it to the sitting room. Hawke is on the couch and Varric on the loveseat, hunched over and hands moving animatedly as he speaks. “This motherfucker had the nerve to tell me he actually ripped some pages from my book, instead of buying the bloody thing. Who does that? Who does that and then tells the author?” Hawke’s laughter is contagious and she pulls Varric along with her. Varric eyes Fenris then moves to rise. Hawke starts to rise as well, but Varric waves her down.

“I know the way out. Tell me later if the cheese still tastes like despair,” Varric says, muscling past Fenris, going for the door. Hawke regards him curiously, and invites him to sit in the chair that Varric has vacated.

"Danarius's estate in Tevinter is much like this one," Fenris says as he sits nervously, his knee bouncing slightly as he looks around the room. Hawke raises her eyebrows and looks almost half amused.

"Are you suggesting I redecorate?" She says slyly, leaning towards him, crossing her legs as she does. She has an elbow on the armrest and her chin resting on her fist. Her other hand is draped over her lap, fingers playing with a button on her skirt.

She observes him silently, and then, "apologies Fenris. A poor attempt at a joke." She says it in a light tone, prodding for a reaction. Ever since they met, she always been pushing, seeing how he responded. Seeing how best to treat him. He hides the smile behind a hand and forces it away with a sigh, leaning further into the chair.

"As long as you do not decorate with the blood of slaves, I am content," he says dryly. She is startled, looking at him with wide eyes for a moment before barking out a laugh.

"I have to confess that my tastes run quite austere. Nothing quite as extravagant as blood, I assure you," Hawke says as she leans back, more at ease. They sit in silence for a moment, the clock on the mantle of the fireplace clicking steadily onwards. She appears to be quite comfortable in the silence, but it scratches at Fenris's bones.

"I - ah - wished to thank you. For your aid against the creatures," he says, stammering out his gratitude. Never in his life had he willingly thanked anyone for anything before. Not without being ordered. _Thank you dominus_. Many choices are opening up before him, and this thank you makes a wide smile break across Hawke's face.

"It's no trouble. I'm sure you've guessed by now that we orchestrated it that way. A trial, of sorts. To show you that we are worthy," she says. "Considering Danarius has not sent creatures to break down my door, our aid seems to have given him pause."

"Advantages in numbers," Fenris says and Hawke nods.

"Haven't you sought help before?"

“Hirelings when I could steal the coin. Never anyone of substance. Until you.”

“Don’t leave then. Stay.” Another ploy to collect him? Would he be her pet, living in her home just like Merrill? No, he could see and he knew that she did not mean it that way. Her decency was not naivety, and even in the brief moments of knowing him, she trusted him. It seemed to him that she couldn’t fathom anyone in her circle betraying her. Once she had opened her doors to someone, they did not close. He wasn’t sure if he was worthy of such a thing.

"Fenris," she says gently when he doesn't reply, "I know you've had a hard life. I am willing to listen, if you need to speak of it."

"I'd rather not," he says curtly, and feels a pang of guilt at how harsh his words sound. Hawke only nods, understanding. She looks at him with such sincerity, not with pity like others would give him. Hers is a tender affection he has not seen in many other people. That a witch could extend her hand, offer aid and risk limb and life, was incredulous to him. All he had known from other witches was the hot cruelty of their magic. His mind and past experience struggled to separate Hawke from all the rest.

"Talk is rather cheap," she says in a sly tone and he cannot help but laugh.

"You are an odd woman, Hawke." At this, she laughs as well.

"That is not news to me. Come, let's see what I can convince you to wear tonight."

* * *

 

When they arrive at the estate, they find it already filled with people. As they enter, Hawke links her arm through Fenris’s. She is a striking figure, her neck and shoulders bare, the dark red dress clinging closely to her figure. The cut of her dress is heart shaped, covering the gentle swell of her breasts. The straps hang off of her shoulders, wrapped around her upper arms, not covering the spread of freckles that flows ever downward. The train of the dress follows them as they walk, and with her hair piled high and her lips stained red, eyes follow her as they go.

Most ladies in the room are wearing gloves, or sleeved things. In the carriage on the way to the party, she had presented her open palms to Fenris and told him that she needs to feel. A party is so many things, it is whispers, it is laughter, it is petty and it is an experience. She wants to feel all of it, drink it in through her skin and through her magic. It is life, and she wants to know all of it. She does not seem to mind that the absence of gloves set her apart from the rest. She takes no issue with standing out.

“The key to these things,” she whispers into Fenris’s ear, “is to act like you don’t care about any of it.” He did not take her suggestion of the green scarf, instead wearing a stiff suit with a long jacket. The bowtie is wrapped around his neck, the chain of his pocket watch visible on the vest and the black shoes shine with their newness. As much as eyes start upon her, they always go to him afterwards. He can feel their eyes examining his hair, and the markings that trail from chin, down his neck, on his hands. All the ones he cannot hide under clothes.

“That will not be difficult,” he tells her dryly, focusing back on those staring at him with a glare. He hears her chuckle lightly.

“It means that you cannot care about their glances, their stares and all the sideways whispers. It is beneath you.” She implies that he is better than all the stuffed nobility around them. She tells him that he is better than those raised with wealth and privilege. He, a runaway slave, being better than all those in this place? He flushes and clears his throat.

This place she has taken him to is much more ornately decorated than her estate. Here their host has his wealth on display, the walls littered with portraits and the stuffed heads of hunted animals. Every wall seems to be covered in a different design, wallpaper to velvet, and paint of many colors. Hawke guides him through the house with gentle pressure on his arm. Many people greet her, wondering where she has been the last few months. Hawke brushes off most of their questions, and introduces Fenris. Their names leave his recollection the moment he hears them.

As the question of Hawke’s absence repeats itself over and over again, Fenris cannot help but wonder as well. This is one thing Hawke is caged on, and she bristles at anyone who presses the inquiry. She is masterful here, playing the others like one would pluck the strings of a fiddle. She extracts gossip of riots being planned by the working poor, individuals of wealth squandering their fortune for some unnamed cause, and the whispers of a murderer stalking the city. Little do they know the murderer is actually multiple creatures plucked straight from their wildest nightmares.

She leads Fenris to the center of the house, to a large room where a full band is playing in the corner. People mill about the room but the middle is reserved for couples engaged in dancing. “Tell me, Serah Fenris, do you dance?” Her eyes gleam mischievously as she looks up at him. Without waiting for a reply, she pulls him along with her, one of his hands clasped in hers, the other on her waist. She has her other hand on his shoulder and waits for him to lead her in the steps.

He was taught how to dance, how to fight, how to serve, but it still takes him a few stuttering steps before he falls into the rhythm. Hawke does not shift her steps or attempt to correct him, merely guides him and smiles when he finds the pattern. Her eyes shift around the room as they move, and she draws his attention to the players in this grim game they are playing.

“The man at the front, with the grey hair and the most expensive suit? Our host, Orsino. He is a witch as well. A respected one, many come to him for advice,” Hawke tells him these things in a whisper, and he is only barely able to hear her over the music of the band. They do not stray too near other couples, and when she talks to him, it is with a smile. To fool the others, to make it look like lovers sharing secret affections.

“The blonde in the corner who looks like she’s perpetually taking a shit? Meredith, the Knight-Commander of the Templars. A secret branch of the Chantry. Witch-hunters. They have an uneasy alliance,” she tells him. “I’d forgotten how fun these parties are!” She says as she throws her head back and laughs at the absurdity of dancing in the presence of a witch-hunter.

“You enjoy being hunted?” He asks as he raises an eyebrow, squeezing her hand and her waist a little tighter. She looks at him impishly, a sly smile drawing across her face.

“It depends on who is doing the hunting,” she tells him a low and suggestive tone. He flushes and fakes a cough, his eyes turning from hers to scan the room once again. She chuckles at his sudden embarrassment. When he sees him, he gives Hawke’s hand a light squeeze.

“There. That man in the corner. An underling of Danarius. Gallus.” Short and fat, his hair greasy, Hawke observes him with distaste. He downs drink after drink, and paws his grubby little hands at any woman that goes near him. She makes a noise of disgust and Fenris wholeheartedly agrees with her assessment. “He is known to partake in whores and too much drink.”

“We will use that to our advantage then. I know just the person to make him sing such a sweet song.” They dance, they drink, and they keep Gallus in their sights. Hawke talks with the other guests with such ease, that one would never guess at how much she hated it. She tells Fenris after that she finds the nobility boring, not one person in the room worthy of her time. Except for Fenris of course, she says as she winks at him.

When Gallus stumbles out the door, they quickly follow, after Hawke has collected her coat. They keep a slight distance as Gallus pukes and staggers his way home. She pulls a notepad and pen from her coat pocket and scrawls down the address. A hotel – Danarius does not let any of his minions stay with him. As always, he keeps his den a secret from the rest. Gallus may not be able to give them an address, but he might be able to point them in the right direction.

They walk home together, Hawke pulling the coat tightly around her. It is a black riding coat, expensive but plain, hugging tightly to her waist but falling gently around her. Its neck is a deep v-shape, and her skin is covered in gooseflesh at exposing it to the night air. Nonetheless she is smiling, her arm still around his. “I love how quiet it is at night. I love the stars and I love the stillness of it all. It has become more dangerous lately, but my feelings have not changed. I want my city back,” she tells him quietly. There is another layer, hidden underneath her words. It is that buried feeling that makes her so muted. Fenris suspects there is more than just the calm of the city that Danarius has taken away from her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)


	3. Blood of the Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Isabela,” Hawke says, “I hope you’ve been nice.”  
> “I’m always nice,” Isabela replies, sticking out her bottom lip in an insincere pout. “Isn’t that right sweetheart?” she says as she draws a finger across Gallus’s cheek. He shudders and she laughs.

She thinks he doesn’t know. She thinks he doesn’t hear her slip from her bed and wander the estate at night. She is like a ghost, in that flowing white lace nightgown of hers, and her long raven hair is a cloak drifting about her. She pads quietly in bare feet across the hardwood, her fingertips against the wall and the railings, a guide unneeded as she walks about in the darkness. She knows which floorboards creak and she avoids them as she moves. She carries a candle in her left hand and her right hand covers her right eye as she talks to someone who isn’t there.

“No, I don’t need you,” she hisses in a whisper as she moves down the stairs. Only when he hears Hawke reach the bottom does Fenris exit his room. He follows the soft glow of the candlelight, and her hushed whispers. She goes to the kitchen, settling the candle in the center of the table, and opens a cupboard to pull out a tea cup. She fills a kettle with water and places it on the lit stove. She covers her eye still, and shakes her head in vehement disagreement to words Fenris cannot hear. She stands swaying by the stove, her free hand wrapped around herself.

“Hawke,” he says from the doorway. Startled, she screams and shakes, the tea cup falling to the floor and shattering as she whirls around. She has a hand clutched to her chest as she breathes heavily, leaning against the countertop beside the stove.

“Andraste’s flaming knickers Fenris! You can’t sneak up on someone like that!” He can’t help it. He tries to cover his mouth but the laughter bursts through anyway. He’s bent over, hands holding onto his gut as he laughs, and Hawke is trying her best to be serious. “Stop laughing! You scared me half to death!” The smile is spreading across her face, which turns into a grin, and soon she is laughing along with him. “That’s cruel, you’re cruel,” she says as she wipes laughing tears from her eyes.

In the days that Fenris has been at the Hawke estate, he has seen Hawke laugh many times. She is free with it, like her smiles, but all those things are careful and controlled. She laughs like she is afraid that she will break if she lets all her feelings ring through. This has thrown her off her guard, and for the first time, Fenris sees what Hawke’s real laughter looks like. So freely happy like this, all the hard edges are smoothed away and he sees a glimpse of the person he suspects she used to be. He does not judge her for this. He used to be someone else as well, once upon a time.

Hawke’s hair shakes with her, falling gently to her waist, and her arms are around her belly as though she is afraid she will shatter just as easily as the teacup. She is free of any makeup, and even still, in the glow of only one candle, her eyes shine as bright as day. She looks younger almost, and in her bare feet and nightgown, it seems like she has not a care in the world. Hawke bends down, on her hands and knees, to collect all the broken pieces. “That was my favorite cup, you ass.” Fenris chuckles and joins her on the floor. They are silent mostly, save for the bits of occasional laughter that breaks through.

Hawke takes the pieces they’ve gathered and carefully deposits them into the garbage. She takes the whistling kettle from the stove, extinguishing the flame with a wave of her hand. She sits across from Fenris at the table and rubs her eyes with her hands. “What are you even doing here Fenris?” He crosses his arms and leans them on the table, sighing as he does.

“I hear you every night Hawke. Wandering the estate, talking to yourself,” he tells her. She looks startled, as if she never imagined that was even a possibility. Then her face flushes, and she looks almost ashamed of herself. “Are you just talking to yourself?” Fenris asks her softly. She looks at him, rolling her lip under her teeth, silently wondering what she should tell him.

“You won’t like my answer,” is what she settles for. He continues to look at her with a steady gaze, one that promises he will do his best not to judge. She sighs and leans back into her chair, weighing his hatred of mages and his general reasonableness. She hopes he won’t just kill her where she sits. “I was speaking with my demon.” His eyes narrow, his suspicions confirmed.

“Hawke,” he says, “Not many witches so freely converse with their demon. Those who do usually fall quickly, and become a night-witch shortly after.”

“Oh yes,” she replies, “mine is quite confident that I will give in. Annoying little shit.” Fenris snorts, giving her a half-chuckle, as he leans back in his chair as well.

“It is too easy for a witch to turn to their demon if they feel the need is great enough. A witch can desire power, justice, revenge, protection, any cause will do. And then they are lost.”

“I don’t disagree with you Fenris,” Hawke replies quietly. “Sometimes, a demon is the only friend a witch has.” She has her elbow on the table now, and her chin in her palm.

“Is that why you would give in? Companionship?” She frowns and Fenris almost begins to scoff. A woman like Hawke seeking the company of a demon, instead of bearing the burden of being alone? If he did not see her so quiet in front of him, he would not have believed it. He remembers all the nights he spent alone, on the run from Danarius. There was no one to trust, no one to turn to. He hid as though he were a mouse, in all the dirty nooks and spaces, frightened that everyone who passed him was merely a hunter for Danarius. He ran and ran and ran, scarcely finding a moment to breathe. If he were a witch, with the voice of a demon in his head, would he have turned to it in those moments?

“Night is the worst. Quiet moments are its specialty. Trying to sleep in all that silence? It’s like it’s standing right next to me, whispering in my ear. It’s easier to be awake and wandering, than alone like that,” she tells him, her fingertips errantly tapping against the wood of the table. All the witches that Fenris had known were not like this. They had never fought the whispers, but simply invited them in. To see Hawke struggle so, to keep hold of herself, was admirable.

“It appears you need a distraction. I will assist you,” he says, coming to a decision. Hawke balks, her eyebrows knitting together in confusion. That gives way to a real chuckle, and then a smile.

“You need your sleep Fenris,” she says, not knowing how to say thank you.

“You know I do not,” is all he tells her.

* * *

 

Hawke is standing in the foyer, leaning against one of the window frames by the front door. There, she can peer out into the streets, and she smiles as she watches people going about their own business. Fenris recalls the line of questioning she received at the party, and wondered how long and why Hawke had closed herself off from the rest of the world. From the way they had spoken to her, it was clear she used to be an intimate part of the social world. Now she seemed content to simply watch it all pass by her.

She had informed him that her associates had successfully lured Gallus away from his hotel room. It didn’t take much - a girl and a bottle of booze. He was being held, safely away from the rest of Danarius’s associates, in a place that Hawke assured Fenris no one would think to look. She had told him all this rather cheerfully, and invited him to walk down with her to question him.

She is wearing a walking dress, a beautifully crafted thing of darkened grey, with a buttoned jacket, slightly puffed sleeves, and a collar which is trice layered. She wears a shirt of lace underneath, with a high collar, a brooch of gold sitting at her throat. She has her umbrella hooked around her wrist, and she plays with the handle absentmindedly as she waits. The light of the sun streams through the windows, and illuminates Hawke – she shows no sign of her lack of sleep, nor any wear from their talk of demons.

Fenris chose to wear a black collared shirt, as well as one of the dark green vests that Hawke had given him. A poor attempt to please her after her disappointment at him not wearing green to the party. A habit of his, he turns the pocket watch over and over in his vest as he descends down the stairs. The trousers are ones she had given him as well, clean and tough things, made for rough work. He has opted for his own coat and shoes, finding comfort in their worn familiarity. What gives him even more comfort is the gun belt around his waist, and the loaded revolver it carries.

Hawke smiles at him when he stands before her, and Bodahn appears at her side in an instant. The man has an uncanny sense of whenever Hawke is leaving the estate. He opens the door for them, and locks it behind them. Hawke is quick to link her arm in Fenris’s, and she does not mention the way he almost instinctively twists away from her. He settles, and she does not take her arm away from his. “Maker, the city always smells awful doesn’t it? Piss, sweat and too much perfume. All these people, not knowing what’s really going on,” she says to him as they weave their way through the crowd.

“Still, it makes me happy to see them. All they’re looking for is friends, a family, and a way to live… all things to make them happy. Danarius threatens to ruin all that. I want to protect it,” Hawke is not shy about looking at all the people they pass by, giving a wistful smile to each and every one. All the others are too busy going about their lives to notice the way she looks at them. “It helps,” she tells him, “to know what you’re fighting for.”

“You fight for strangers,” he says to her. Fenris does not think he’s ever fought for a stranger a day in his life. He has always fought in service to someone else. He fought for Danarius because he was ordered to. Even running, away from Danarius, he still felt the chains at his throat, ordering him to fight because of the thrill of the chase. To have the luxury to choose what to fight for, whether it be for yourself, a friend, or a stranger, was outside of his experience.

Hawke guides him through Kirkwall’s winding streets, away from the more privileged Hightown and into dirtier streets. If he did not know that she was taking him to where Gallus was being held, he would think that she was taking him on a rather pleasant stroll. She stopped at any street stall that caught her interest, and he had no choice but to go along with her. All the while she kept her arm safely tucked around his. She points out the quirks of the city for him, and he learns more in a few moments with Hawke than he had in the weeks he had stayed in Kirkwall on his own.

The air around the docks is heavy with the scent of seawater and fish, but Hawke does not seem to mind. Gulls screech overhead, and dock workers shout to each other. It is loud but lively, and each of Hawke’s steps convey that she knows exactly where she means to go. She peers over the seemingly endless expanse of blue, dotted by ships, and tells him that Kirkwall is not, in fact, her place of origin. She had come to this city from across the Waking City years before, fleeing a plague with the rest of her family. She grows quiet and melancholy after that, and Fenris remembers the portraits in her home. It is not hard to realize that her family is no more. Another piece fitting into the puzzle, more answers as to why she would turn to a demon for companionship.

She takes him to a rather nondescript building, the only notable thing being the sign hanging over the doorway. ‘The Siren’s Call’, its emblem is a rather well-endowed naked woman, with her lower half being that of a fish. A light covered by red glass sits beside the door. “Hawke,” he says, suddenly hesitant, and she grins and pulls him along with her inside of the brothel. The lighting is poor in this place, all shaded red, and the walls are draped in lush blankets, and all of the furniture is ornate and golden. The air is heavily perfumed, to cover the scent of the seawater and sex.

A woman greets them when they enter, from her place behind a podium. She is dressed in high stockings and a short dress that is barely anything more than a corset. Her hair is coiffed high, and her makeup highlights all the right features. “Ah, Mistress Hawke. The Madam is waiting for you in a private room. 3B,” she says, passing Hawke a large brass key.

“Thank you Jan, much appreciated,” Hawke says, slipping some coins into the woman’s palm and smiling brightly. The first floor is all nooks and crannies, and darkly lit tables with fat men and laughing whores. They skillfully ply their trade, whispering the fulfillment of every desire and the promise of pleasure. Hawke chuckles at how uncomfortable Fenris seems, and how he blushes when they pass rooms whose inhabitants moan and scream. She takes him to the third floor, and stands outside the door to 3B.

“I should warn you, Isabela is not what she seems,” Hawke softly laughs at Fenris’s expression, and without any more explanation, opens the door. They are greeted by a rather interesting display. Centered in the room is Gallus, naked and bound, with a gag in his mouth. His legs and arms are tied behind the chair he sits in, and his rather large belly hangs over his privates. Standing behind him, with her hands on his shoulders, is the dark woman who was with them that night in the park.

Her long dark hair is braided and bound, and it cascades down her back. Pearls and beads are intertwined in her hair, jewelry of the finest make. She wears large earrings and more necklaces than he can count. Her hands and wrists are more of the same, sparkling gems and jewels. She is wearing an embroidered corset of lush purple and gold, and her skirt continues that pattern. She has black stockings underneath, which end in pointed heels.

She grins brilliantly when they enter, the gold piercing below her lip glinting in the light, and outstretches her arms towards them. Her eyes are lined with fine powder painted on her dark skin and her lips are stained a fine violet. She is a rare beauty, and she is clearly aware of it. “Darlings! I’m so glad you could make it to this small fete. Especially you Fenris,” Isabela calls out with laughter ringing in her voice. “Gallus here has been so eagerly awaiting your presence,” she says, clapping her hands to the man’s shoulder. Gallus whimpers pathetically.

“Isabela,” Hawke says, “I hope you’ve been nice.”

“I’m always nice,” Isabela replies, sticking out her bottom lip in an insincere pout. “Isn’t that right sweetheart?” she says as she draws a finger across Gallus’s cheek. He shudders and she laughs. “He’s a seasoned little chicken for you, Hawke, all buttered up and ready to be questioned.” Isabela has her hands on the gag, and she pops it out of his mouth and lets it fall to the floor. Gallus doesn’t say anything, just looks between the two women. Fenris leans against the doorway, as Hawke moves to stand in front of Gallus.

She has the point of the umbrella on the floor, and her hands rest on the handle. All the smiles from their walk are gone now, and here is Hawke serious and intimidating, shoulders squared and eyes narrowed. “Your master. Where does he rest his head at night?” Hawke asks, getting straight to the point. Gallus looks from Hawke to Isabela.

“Mistress?” Gallus is so unsure and seeks Isabela’s approval before replying.

“Go on sweet thing,” Isabela encourages him to answer Hawke’s question. Fenris stands a little straighter, at the control Isabela has over Gallus. Not what she seems, indeed. He has seen this before, a hold on someone else’s mind, done by a night-witch. There’s no taste of iron in the air, the sickly stench of blood, which usually accompanies this sort of power. Not a witch then – something else. If she were a vampire and Gallus her thrall, his hair would be white and he would have the tell-tale red eyes. As if sensing his pondering, Isabela’s eyes flick over to Fenris and she grins wickedly at him.

“He sleeps in different places each night. I don’t know where,” Gallus says, more to Isabela than to Hawke. Isabela croons at him, praising him for his answers and gives his head an affectionate pet. Gallus shivers with delight, pleased he could make his mistress happy.

“During the day then, does he have a routine?” Hawke presses ever forward, trying to find the beginning of the string which will lead her to Danarius. Gallus, the fat little man he is, quivers in his chair, desperate for Isabela’s approval. Words spill from his mouth as fast as he can speak them, eager to please.

“He attends social events and visits the nobility of the city. He is meeting as many people as he can, to further his plans.”

“His plans in Kirkwall. What are they?” Hawke’s stance has not changed, she remains as still and in command as ever. She has a quiet and dominating presence, ever focused in her goals. For the first time in a long time, Fenris believes that he will actually find and kill Danarius. If it takes consorting with witches and… other things, then so be it.

“Danarius seeks lost property. He wants it returned. Then he wants to rule Kirkwall,” Gallus says, and Hawke briefly turns her head to look at Fenris. They both know that the lost property that Gallus mentions is referring to him. Fenris says nothing and Hawke turns back to Gallus. The years of running have done nothing to cool Danarius’s want of him, and he still feels as though Fenris is his. The thought of it makes his blood boil and his skin crawl, as though he could feel Danarius’s hands on his shoulders, his breath in his ear. He shifts on his feet, and attempts to shake those thoughts from his head.

“Rule? How?”

“He’ll create an army of thralls and use them to destabilize the region. He’ll identify exploitable weaknesses in the nobility. He will replace the viscount and put a puppet in his place,” Gallus lists off these things as though he finds nothing wrong with it. A chill rattles up Hawke’s spine. This sort of thing, the bored way Gallus speaks of it, implies that Danarius had done it before. How many cities did he have under his thumb? Bloody teeth at their door, coming to control.

“Tell me what else you know,” Hawke demands this, needing to find that one tear in Danarius’s armor, one where she could slide a needle through and begin to break him.

“He’s angry and displeased. His niece has attracted the attention of the Templars.”

“Hadriana,” Fenris supplies her name, speaking for the first time since they entered the room. At this, Hawke’s stance finally changes and she shifts to turn to Fenris.

“Could they be turned against each other? Use Hadriana against him?” He knows why she asks. Having someone who was in Danarius’s inner circle for so long helping them would be a powerful tool. It would not work – Fenris knows the loyalty Hadriana has for her uncle. The fucking night-witch reveled in the destruction and violence that Danarius wrought. Too many times had he been forced to watch as she sacrificed another slave and laughed in their blood.

“No. She dies, just as Danarius does,” he snaps. Hawke cocks her head slightly, watching Fenris as he struggled to stamp down the font of rage that Hadriana had summoned. She nods, after a moment, as though she could read his thoughts as easily as she could a book.

“We’ll find her, Fenris,” Hawke tells him in a low voice. This is a promise, same as she had promised him Danarius’s heart in his palm.

“Is there anything else?” Isabela asks as she stretches her arms above her head. When Hawke shakes her head no, Isabela produces a small dagger from her skirts. She puts one hand on Gallus’s forehead and pulls it back. “You’ve been such a good pet,” Isabela says and Gallus smiles as she slits his throat. The blood flows like a river, pooling around Gallus’s bound feet. Isabela practically skips over the blood, over to clasp Hawke’s arms.

“You have no idea what he had in his pockets. His wallet was a feast of coin. He had the ugliest rings on his grubby little hands, but they fetched a nice price. Are we going to lure a Templar next? I wonder what kind of coin a Templar has.” Isabela says excitedly and Hawke laughs softly and shakes her head.

“I’ll see what Sebastian can find about what these Templars know. I’d prefer to keep my distance from them, personally,” Hawke says as Isabela opens the door, and locks it behind them.

“You’re no fun. Whatever he finds, do bring me along if we’re going to be doing some hunting. I get so bored cooped up in here,” Isabela says, and slides up beside Fenris. “We need some new patrons.” Isabela winks at him, and Fenris only adjusts his collar and clears his throat. Hawke laughs and before they leave, Isabela plants two kisses on Hawke, one on each cheek.

“Do be careful,” Isabela says, tapping her fingers to Hawke’s chin.

“Always,” Hawke smiles.

On their way back to the estate, Hawke has once again wound her arm around his. She seems rather pleased with the knowledge that Templars are chasing Hadriana as well. She says she’d rather they hunt a real threat, than hunt someone else. Like her, for instance. “Hawke, I must ask. What is Isabela? The control she had…” Fenris is uneasy with the words. To sway someone so utterly like that, so much so that they smile in the face of death, chilled him. Hawke chuckles briefly and gives his arm a reassuring squeeze.

“There once was a ship, crewed by the staunchest and most experienced navy men. They were famed for their ability to sail through anything, come hell or high water. One day, they all disappeared. For months, no news. Until, one of the sailors found his way into a bar. He told anyone who would listen about beautiful women singing to them over the waves. All those navy men simply walked off the plank, to be in the arms of these lovely women. They dragged them down to their doom, and they all drowned. He was the only survivor, only because he was deaf. This was not the first time such a thing had happened. It’s a fairly common fairy tale,” Hawke tells him. “They call these women sirens.”

“And Isabela is one,” Fenris says and Hawke smiles at his answer.

“Actually, most of the ladies working the Siren’s Call are. Isabela’s kind of their… captain, as she likes to say,” Hawke says. Whenever she speaks of her associates, her friends, Hawke’s fondness for them always shines through. It was also clear that they felt the same way for her. If he were to eliminate Merrill, and Hawke, he would no doubt be on the run again, chased to the ends of the earth for vengeance’s sake.

That evening he lies awake, and intentionally listens for Hawke to rise from her bed. When he hears the quiet creak of her bed, and soft footsteps, he rises as well. He opens his door at relatively the same time she opens hers. She looks down the hallway to see him, a candle in her hand, and she smiles. They descend down the stairs together and make their way to the kitchen.

“I hope you like tea,” she says, “don’t break my cup this time.” He laughs, seats himself at the table, and they talk together long into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)


	4. Fresh Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What have you done? What have you done to Carver?” The words die in Hawke’s mouth, and her hand trembles. “You’ve killed him! You’ve killed my baby boy!”

Hawke sits at the desk in her room, the tarot cards spread before her, face down. Her eyes are closed, and she is frowning slightly, her hand wavering over the cards. She isn’t quite sure what she’s looking for, besides an answer to the general feeling of dread in her spine. Her head tilts slightly, and the whispers at the edge of her hearing draw ever closer. Her hand trembles, and her fingers drop to slide forth one card. There is a breath at her ear, a finger pressing at the back of her head, and her hand slams to the table over the second card. She opens her eyes, shaking her head slightly, clearing the cobwebs from her skull.

She turns the first card to reveal Justice. This card makes sense to her, considering the goal they are working towards. They will be giving to Danarius what he justly deserves. The second is more mystifying to her. The Nine of Cups is all the things that haunt a person, keep them up at night. The figure displayed on the card is alone, head in their hands, crying to themselves. A soul that needs comfort. Surely not her soul. If so, then who?

A short knock at the door attracts her attention, “Father Sebastian is here to see you,” Bodahn calls from the other side. She gathers the cards, arranges them in a neat deck, placing them back inside one of the drawers of the desk. Justice and the Nine of Cups she slips into the pocket of her dress. She follows Bodahn to the sitting room, where Fenris and Sebastian are talking to one another.

“If I might ask… are you Andrastian, Fenris?” Hawke suppresses a snort of laughter, she finds it hard to believe that Fenris is religious. She was, once upon a time, and her current lack of faith drew Sebastian into many late night conversations. She takes a seat on the couch beside Fenris, where he looks supremely bored with Sebastian’s question.

“Why? Will you attempt to bring me into the fold?”

“Your experiences may have soured your opinion towards faith, but many people from many walks of life believe in the Maker.” Ah, Sebastian, ever so delicate in the way he puts things. He darts around the things that are hard to say, witchcraft, vampirism, slavery. She thanks Bodahn as he passes her a tea cup, steaming warm. She places it on the desk beside her, crossing her legs underneath her dress.

“Whatever faith I might have had was never strong. As a slave you are left feeling… abandoned,” Fenris says and Hawke finds herself surprised that Fenris ever had faith at all. She too felt abandoned by all the heavenly creatures, instead she was imprisoned in the murk and muck of the earth and its demons. She had, well, she had much taken away from her. She was grateful that she at least never had her freedom permanently snatched away.

“The Maker didn’t enslave you, Fenris,” Sebastian says in such a soft voice, smiling the way he does. If his family didn’t insist on him being in the Chantry, Hawke was sure that he would still be out in the streets causing mayhem for all manner of people. He could charm a viper with that smile. Fenris does not smile back, his guarded posture does not change, and he instead sighs.

“He didn’t free me either.” At that, Hawke does snort, and only Sebastian casts a glance at her. A disapproving one, of course, at interrupting what Sebastian so passionately believes in. She feels only slightly guilty at that. She would never fault Sebastian for his beliefs. The Chantry is where he fits, where he’s found his purpose. She wishes she had the same assurance in her fate as he did.

“And yet here you are. Perhaps He helped you more than you think,” Sebastian says, turning back to Fenris with the smile back on his lips. Fenris does not scoff or diminish Sebastian’s beliefs. He only shrugs. Not the reaction he was expecting, Sebastian shifts in the chair and faces Hawke.

“I’ve made some cautious inquiries about the Templars current investigations. Formally, there is no hunt for Hadriana. A foreign dignitary, it would be… of consequence if the Chantry was investigating,” Sebastian says, as Hawke sips at the still warm tea. This is what she expected. Running around in another city would give Danarius and his underthings legal immunity. Informally, Hawke could always rely on Knight-Commander Meredith’s zealotry to keep a close eye on any she suspected to be a witch, from the lowest commoner to even those who wear crowns.

Continuing, Sebastian confirms her suspicions. “However, some Templars have gone missing shortly after doing routine rounds. Rounds which take them very close to sites where Hadriana has been spotted.” Fenris flicks his head towards her, a silent question asking if they were to go after them.

“Surely the Templars would be grateful if we located their missing soldiers,” Hawke says with a smile. Sebastian nods eagerly, but Fenris knows that they are not merely searching for lost souls, they are also hunting for Hadriana. To follow the Templars trail was also to follow hers. With any luck, they would lead them to Hadriana’s doorstep and he could tear the heart from her chest.

“Sebastian, might you know the exact places they went during their rounds?” Hawke asks, leaning forward in her seat. Sebastian scratches his head and looks sheepish for a moment, before drawing an envelope from his robes.

“The Knight-Commander gave this report to Her Holiness. I have… borrowed it,” Sebastian says, while Hawke chuckles as she takes the envelope from him.

“We’ll make a sinner of you yet,” Hawke grins at him while Sebastian huffs and denies it, crossing his arms and leaning back in the chair, his face turning slightly red.

“If you’ve no more need of me, I think I need to pray,” Sebastian says as he rises from the chair. “Please tell me if you find the Templars. No more souls need to be lost to this darkness.” He shakes his head and Hawke gives him a soft smile. She hopes it’s reassuring for him, for she has no doubt that if and when they find the Templars, they’ll be dead.

“I’ll inform you right away,” Hawke says to him as she rises with him, putting her hand on his shoulder. Sebastian pats it, smiling at her and giving Hawke his thanks. Bodahn is already at the door, opening it for Sebastian.

“If we find her, we must kill her quickly. She is a most powerful night-witch,” Fenris says, moving to stand beside Hawke.

“Why Fenris, it almost feels like you doubt my desire to kill her. I’m hurt,” she says, casting him a coy glance as she stalks away to the dining room. Merrill is there, in bare feet, her knees up to her chest as she sits in a chair, flipping through a large and dusty book. She smiles at them when they enter, Hawke taking a seat beside her. Hawke gives a cursory glance at the book, then removes the letters from Sebastian’s envelope. Fenris sits across from the two witches, thinking that Hawke looks more the night-witch than Merrill does.

Hawke shuffles through the papers, her brow slightly furrowed as she reads. “All these places seem so normal. Not somewhere one would murder Templars,” she murmurs, more to herself than anything. It catches Merrill’s attentions however, and she cocks her head to look at the papers, to Hawke and finally to Fenris.

“Are we going out?” She asks, but Fenris only glowers.

“Maybe,” Hawke says, in a voice that’s almost a whisper, biting her thumb between her teeth as she spreads the papers out before her. The frown has not left her yet, and she pores over every detail, her finger tracing over every word. Her eyes close, palms stretching out and Fenris leans over on the table to watch her. Merrill looks at him, and carefully places a finger over her lips, urging him to be quiet. In her own world of sudden darkness, Hawke hears the cacophony of noises approaching.

She winces at the volume, a mixture of metal striking metal, shouting voices and seagulls. She smells acrid iron, smoke, sweat and seawater. “A foundry I believe. Somewhere near the docks,” she murmurs as she opens her eyes and scans the list of places the Templars went on their patrol.

“Here,” she says tapping her finger to a page, “this shop she went to is the only place near the docks.” Fenris is still watching her, the disbelief plain on his face. His mouth is set in a grim line, one eyebrow slightly raised, and one of his fingers is lightly tapping the table.

“A foundry? You’re certain? We cannot afford to waste time on a fruitless search,” he says and it’s not Hawke who speaks up to defend herself, but Merrill.

“Hawke knows where we need to go,” she says, the confidence written in her words, her smile and her knowing nod. Without a word, Hawke rises to rifle through the cabinet behind her, drawing out a large folder of parchment. Merrill clears the table for her, and when Hawke opens the folder he can see that the papers are maps, the layout of the city. Scrawled over them are handwritten notes, no doubt labels for what businesses are where. A few have been scratched out and replaced with other names, and she flips through page after page before settling on one.

“If this is the shop,” Hawke has her finger on one of the buildings, “then the foundry must be close by,” she says. Her finger scans the page, running over countless labels, before settling on two she likes. “These two are away from the streets, close to the shop, and are fitting to what I felt. I’ll have Bodahn send a message to Isabela. We go tonight,” Hawke says, nodding at Fenris.

“Why do you have these?” Fenris asks, reaching across the table to tap at the map.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Hawke smirks. Fenris shakes his head, but there’s a small smile underneath. He can’t decide if she is simply well-prepared or overly cautious. Either way it is clear that she has been planning to hunt in this city for quite some time. Whether just for Danarius or something else, he isn’t sure.

Hawke summons a taxi for them later that evening, and they ride in the carriage in silence. Fenris has his arms crossed, and his eyes closed, preparing himself for whatever they find. He is of the same mind of Hawke, believing that they will find the Templars broken bodies, no doubt drained of blood. Hadriana and Danarius were never kind to their victims. The taxi lets them off by the building Hawke selected to meet Isabela at. She is already there waiting for them, sans the dress and jewelry Fenris had seen her in before.

She is dressed practically, in trousers and with a long coat that is belted around her waist. She still wears a large ornate choker, but the rings on her fingers have been replaced with brass knuckles. The gun belt around her waist is fastened securely, her two revolvers in plain sight. “You and Merrill take the one up the street. Fenris and I will take this one. If your building is empty, come find us. If ours is empty, we’ll come to you,” Hawke says to her as they group underneath one of the street lamps.

Isabela gives a short nod, before putting an arm over Merrill’s shoulders. Merrill has no gun belt, instead she is wearing that white lace as usual, with a bag slung over her shoulder. Fenris knows that within that bag is the meat cleaver she favors so dearly. Hawke watches the two move towards the other foundry, before she and Fenris take off for the one they are to investigate. Hawke draws a lock picking set from the pockets of the skirts and kneels down before the door. She works at it quickly, smiling when she hears the click of success.

Even though it’s unlocked, it is jammed, and it takes a few good heaves before Fenris is able to shoulder the door open. The building is dark and the air is sour, Hawke scrunching her nose in distaste as they enter. It is warm, the sort of temperature that seeps under skin and heats your bones. Most of all, it is quiet. Fenris begins to turn to Hawke, to tell them that this is the wrong foundry, that he sees nothing, but Hawke only raises her hands and looks curiously at the closed doors up the stairs. They walk past booming fires of molten metal, the soot and ash heavy under their feet. Fenris follows her up the stairs, and watches as she places a hand on door after door.

At one, she pauses and purses her lips. Her head tilts as though she is listening to a faraway whisper, her brow furrowed in concentration. She raises a hand and brings out two fingers, then after a moment, a third. She tries the handle of the door, turning it slowly, nodding when it opens at her touch. The way she opens it is equally cautious, and Fenris stands close to her with his pistol drawn. They find the Templars, but they are not as they were expecting. They expected corpses. This is something much different.

The three Templars stand in a close circle with each other in the far corner of the room, away from the electric lights and fires lit. Their shoulders are heaving and Fenris and Hawke can hear the staggering and strenuous breaths they are taking. They groan and exhale, and pay the intruders no mind. Hawke is looking at them curiously, while Fenris is lining up his shot. As if sensing Fenris’s intentions, all of the Templars heads snap towards them.

There is no more white in their eyes. That is black now, and their irises are rimmed with red. Blood dribbles from their eyes, and spit flies from their open mouths. “Possessed,” Hawke breathes, and Fenris fires the first shot straight into one of the Templar’s skulls. Its head snaps back, then creaks back forwards, a visible hole going straight through his head. Fenris takes aim and fires again, again and again. It staggers the Templar but does not down him.

“ _Fasta vass_ ,” Fenris curses as all three suddenly race towards them, keeping Hawke behind him. The first Templar launches himself at Fenris, and with bullets being useless, Fenris tugs the sword from the Templar’s scabbard. The Templar snaps and snarls at him, and Fenris brings down the sword to neatly slice through the muscle of the Templar’s arm. It howls and screeches like a banshee, and immediately the second Templar is on him, trying to take the sword from him. He can do nothing to stop the third, who moves past him straight for Hawke.

She does not move even as it stalks towards her, its bloody hands outstretched for her. She stands her ground, even as those hands grip around her shoulders, and the Templars drool drips onto her dress. She places a hand on his chest, “Hunger, stilled; rage, smothered; desire, dampened; pride, crushed,” she intones, repeating the words over and over to the Templar’s growing confusion. It cocks its head at her, eyes wide and mouth hanging open.

Fenris can hear the incantation behind him, but he is too focused on kicking the injured Templar in the chest, booting it away from him. It seems they have forgotten they carry weapons, and attack only with tooth and nail. The edge of the blade bites into the Templar’s hands as it pushes towards him, and Fenris can only hold on and push back as hard as possible, while eyeing the other Templar who scrambles to its feet and moves to attack him once again.

“Hunger, stilled; rage, smothered; desire – ”

“What have you done?” A woman’s voice, coming from the mouth of the Templar Hawke has in her grasp. “What have you done to Carver?” The words die in Hawke’s mouth, and the hand she has on the Templar trembles. “You’ve killed him! You’ve killed my baby boy!” She has frozen in place, her mouth open and eyes wide as the fingertips of the Templar dig into her shoulders, hard enough to bruise and hard enough to pierce.

Fenris smashes his foot into the injured Templar’s knee, and it falls to the ground with a screech. He takes that opportunity to hack at its neck, warm blood splashing onto his face as he hastily chops through skin and bone. This does something that bullets could not – actually kill the thing. The other Templar has scrambled and taken the opportunity to climb on Fenris’s back, his hands on Fenris’s neck and forehead, twisting and pulling, trying to snap. “Hawke!” he chokes out, as he walks backwards to slam the Templar into a wall. Again and again, but the Templar’s hold does not loosen. “Hawke!” He manages to scream it this time, his hands trying to pry away the Templar’s.

The Templar is scratching and screeching at him, a high pitched whine constant in Fenris’s ear. The Templar digs his fingernails into his head, piercing holes into his forehead as it holds on, while Fenris desperately tries to dislodge it. It keeps its other hand on his neck, choking and squeezing, his fingertips over the pulse in Fenris’s neck. The possession has made the Templar not unlike the creatures that Danarius makes his thralls, sensing the river of blood flowing beneath skin and craving to have it pour free. He moves forward, he smashes backwards into the wall, he tries to pry loose the Templar’s grip on his neck. It’s puncturing him now, ready to tear open his throat.

“Hunger, stilled; rage, smothered; desire, dampened; pride, crushed,” Hawke hisses, drawing herself up fully, hand pressing into the Templar in front of her. It is shaking under her touch, its eyes rolling as she repeats the words over and over. The Templar shakes and screams, his eye sockets beginning to smoke. It collapses with a thud, body still twitching from whatever Hawke had done to it. She tugs out this Templar’s sword and Hawke immediately rushes to Fenris’s aid. Fenris pulls away from smashing the Templar on his back into the wall.

She finds the gap between its ribs with the point of the sword and pushes it through to its heart. She lets go of the sword immediately as the Templar’s hold on Fenris slips, and it falls to a heap on the ground. Blood is pouring down one side of Fenris’s face, where the Templar had pierced him. That’s not the most grievous wound though – as Fenris has his hands on his neck, blood pouring through the cracks between his fingers. Hawke adds the pressure of her hand to his, as Fenris drops to kneel on the floor.

“Maker’s breath,” Isabela exclaims, as she appears in the doorway with Merrill.

“Help me!” Hawke hisses. Merrill immediately joins Hawke and Fenris on her knees, and gently pulls away their hands to look at the five puncture wounds on his neck. Her eyes go black for a moment, and she passes a fingertip over them.

“I’ve sealed them so he’s stable for now, but we should get him to Anders right away,” Merrill says. With Hawke on one side and Merrill on the other, they pull Fenris to his feet.

“Search them, see if they have anything that points to Hadriana or Danarius’s whereabouts,” Hawke tells Isabela as they pass her. “Then burn the bodies.” Isabela nods, and immediately gets to work, searching every pocket and boot.

The night air is a welcome change from the suffocating warmth of the foundry, but there’s no time to bask and enjoy. Hawke is barking directions to Merrill, leading them down back alleys where no one will notice them. Deeper into the city they go, where the streets get narrower and dirtier, and buildings are more run down and darker. They stop in front of a building with windows stained with filth and ash, and the door has the symbol of a ram’s skull with a star in the center. Hawke kicks at the door rather than knocking, heavy kicks of urgency.

They hear multiple locks being undone on the other side, before the door creaks open. “Maker’s breath do you have any idea how late it is – Hawke.” The door opens fully immediately at the sight of her, Anders ushering the three of them inside. Fenris is barely conscious, struggling to keep his eyes open, and he is unable to hold himself up. Merrill and Hawke drop him into one of the cots on Anders’s floor, and he sinks into it gratefully.

“What happened?” Anders is moving around the room, gathering what supplies he needs. Merrill is standing, wringing her hands, but Hawke is kneeling by the cot, one of her hands entwined in Fenris’s. She tries to free herself, but Fenris groans and grips tighter. So she stays.

“Anders we found Templars that were _possessed_ ,” she says as the healer sets a bucket of water down beside her, along with fresh cloth and unmarked bottles of what only Anders knows. Anders frowns as he kneels down by Fenris’s head.

“That’s not possible,” he says, dipping a cloth into the water and gently drawing it across Fenris’s neck. Fenris immediately hisses, his eyes snapping open, but Hawke has her other hand on his shoulder pressing him back to the cot.

“That’s what I thought as well, until a Templar spoke to me using my mother’s voice,” she said, and Anders’s hands hesitated slightly.

“Only a very powerful night-witch could do something like that,” Anders says softly, opening one of the bottles and dabbing a cloth with it before pressing it to Fenris’s neck. He hisses again, his teeth bared, and his hand squeezes Hawke’s tightly.

“I know,” Hawke replies equally as soft, using her free hand to dip a cloth into water and wipe gently at Fenris’s forehead and face, cleaning it of blood. She wipes blood-matted hair away from his face, and he looks at her through hazy eyes. Anders finding the wound sufficiently cleaned he shakes his hands, staring at them as they begin to glow with a blue tint. He presses his hands to Fenris’s neck and skin begins to knit back together.

“I’m going to find Isabela,” Merrill says, unable to keep uselessly standing about. Hawke gives her a nod, before she slips out the door. Anders quickly brushes his hands over Fenris’s forehead, healing the bloody marks that are there. He then turns his attentions to Hawke, placing his hands over her shoulders. There are wet, glistening marks on her shoulders where the Templar had dug in his grip. It stings as he heals her, but as soon as he draws his hands away, it feels as though the injury never happened.

Anders rises, and begins to clean away the bloody cloths and soiled water. She frees herself from Fenris’s grasp, him being now safely in the depths of sleep, and moves to help Anders. “Thank you,” she says to him and Anders only shrugs.

“You should be more careful next time,” is all he says to her. Hawke smiles, and pulls up a chair beside Fenris’s bedside. Anders passes her a blanket, and without a word disappears into the back of his shop. The Panacea Apothecary, where all lost souls with no money go to be healed. Anders washes his hands and his arms of blood, before sinking into his own bed. Healing like that was no easy task. He squeezes his eyes closed and thinks of witches planting demons into Templars. It was beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)


	5. No Shade in the Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If not for the warning screaming in her skull, he would be as ordinary and boring as the rest of them. A beast in human skin, a monster with a smile. He is watching Fenris, and watching her watch him. She forces herself to be ice, and approaches Danarius.

When Fenris wakes, it’s with a groan. Hawke is in a chair beside him, a threadbare blanket over her legs, while her arms are crossed. Her eyes are closed and her head is downward, and even asleep she looks utterly composed. Across the room, a man is arranging bottles on a shelf. Hearing Fenris stir, he turns to look at him. This man is blonde, his hair long and tied back, his clothes are dirty and worn, and his sleeves rolled up the elbow. The vest he is wearing is dark, but it cannot hide the darker stains of what must be blood.

He looks tired, dark circles under his eyes, and he approaches Fenris as he tries to get up from the cot. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, you’ve lost a lot of blood,” the man tells him. Sure enough, his shirt is caked in it, and his hair matted and crusty from it. “My name is Anders, by the way.”

“I assume you were the one who saved my life. I owe you a debt of gratitude,” Fenris grumbles, running his hand over his neck. “My name is Fenris.”

“I know,” Anders says. Another one of Hawke’s associates clearly. Fenris’s fingertips search for the wounds, and find none. _Fenhedis_ , another fucking witch. He closes his eyes and sighs, recalling the events of the previous evening. Hawke’s whispered exclamation of the Templars being possessed. Hadriana’s doing, clearly. Sending the Templars back to their holes to wreak havoc. He’s seen her do it before, and he should have _known_. But he was a fool, and assumed she would simply kill them. He opens his eyes as Hawke stirs, rising from the chair to stretch. Had she stayed all night?

He glances toward her shoulders, where the dried blood is evident on her dress. She had frozen, after the demon housed in the Templar had spoken to her. He resolves to ask her about this Carver it had mentioned. That’s for later however. For now, Hawke steps towards him with her hand outstretched, fingertips light on his chin to tilt his head away to see for certain that his wounds are healed. She smiles when she sees the marks on his neck are no more, and moves her hand to touch at the blood that’s now crusted in his hair.

She only laughs when he knocks her hand away with a scowl. He is unused to those fawning over him with concern, not curiosity. She stretches then moves towards Anders, her arms crossed. They talk in soft voices as Hawke helps him sort different colored bottles and herbs. His head swims, and he resigns himself to lying back down. Her laughter is low and easy, and he can hear the concern in her voice as she asks Anders how he’s been, if he’s been sleeping, eating, and taking care of himself.

Anders brushes off her concerns, but Hawke is not one to give up so easily. She may table the discussion now, but Fenris has no doubts that Anders will be hearing about it later. She’s got that stubborn frown on her brow and she tells Anders lightly that she’ll be around soon with more donations. He begins to tell her that she’s done enough but she only raises a hand to silence him. “I owe you Anders,” she says, “especially with last night’s call.” He chuckles, shakes his head, and gives in.

Varric does not knock when he arrives, he merely barges his way in, an envelope in his hands. “I am apparently the messenger,” Varric says with a flourishing bow. “Hawke – Isabela and Merrill found a coded note on one of the Templars, which they are taking to Sebastian. Anders – I have those invitations you wanted. Now, who wants a ride back to Hightown without walking through the streets like a bloody mess?” He passes the envelope to Anders, who accepts it graciously.

“Hawke, since you’re here, there is one way to settle last night’s debt,” Anders says, turning to her. “The Templars have been acting suspiciously lately… more than usual. This invitation – it’s to a party a Templar is having. Ser Alrik. While they’re distracted by their party, I can look around. I would feel better about it with back up,” he says and Hawke smiles.

“Of course Anders, whatever you need.”

Varric makes a fake coughing noise, drawing their attention. “A certain diplomat from Tevinter is rumored to be going. You might want to be careful about this Hawke,” he says. Her eyes flick from Varric, to Anders, and finally, to rest upon Fenris. He is tense, sitting up again at the mere thought of Danarius. Attending a party surrounded by Templars? Equal protection as well as danger. The Templars would keep Hawke from acting, while he and Hadriana could sniff out whatever they had on Hadriana. And perhaps even Hawke. She was behind in this race of theirs. Fenris was eager to run ahead, while she was still trying to pace herself, figuring out the steps.

“I will be careful. I’ll try not to ruin my good name by stabbing anyone either,” she says with a sweet smile. Varric laughs.

“That’s my girl. Come on, let’s get you back. I think bloody clothes aren’t quite in fashion.” She gives Anders a quick peck on the cheek, before arranging a time to have him come to her estate. She then goes to Fenris’s side, and helps him stand with an arm around his waist. He accepts this aid gratefully, his arm around her shoulders, leaning on her as the world still swims behind his vision. She helps him into Varric’s carriage, and sits herself close beside him, an arm still linked in his.

“I’m sorry,” she says, so quietly he almost doesn’t hear her over the noise of the horse and the wheels against the cobblestones. “If I hadn’t frozen, if I had acted sooner, you wouldn’t have been injured so.” He grunts at that.

“Why did you freeze?” He asks her, and the hold she has on his arm tightens.

“That voice… it was my mothers. Speaking of my brother. Both gone now,” she smiles at him, but it’s a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. Her face falls to neutrality soon after, unable to keep up the charade.

“I cannot imagine what it must be like to lose your family. Anything I could say would be insufficient. I’m sorry.” She leans against him and pats his hand, a silent thanks for his sympathy. The rest of the way back to Hawke’s estate is spent in an easy silence, and when they arrive, their walk to Fenris’s bedroom is spent in equal silence. He collapses with a contented sigh into the bed, Hawke laughing at his comfort.

“Hawke, if you would… please wake me in time for this party. I wish to go with you,” he tells her quietly before she leaves, her hand still on the door. She turns back to him with a shrug.

“You don’t need to come with us Fenris. You need time to recover.”

“I am uncomfortable with the thought of you walking into a Templar den alone.”

“Afraid you’ll lose your investment?” She laughs then, but he does not. Her involvement is not just an investment to him, but the very key to defeating Danarius. The way she burned that possessed Templar from the inside out… her power could match that of Hadriana’s. The wild card that topples Danarius from his perch. She shakes her head and assures him that she’ll wake him in time for a bath and a change of clothes.

* * *

 She is a vision in red, yellow pearls hanging from her throat and earlobes. Her hair is delicately coiffed upwards, pinned back in layer upon layer, a carefully and ornately done thing. She looks upwards at Fenris, dressed in a plain black suit, and smiles as he comes down the stairs. “Feeling better?” She asks him. Sleep had cleared the fog from his mind, and he does not waver in his steps.

“I am, thank you.” Anders is waiting as well, in what is clearly a second hand suit. It is a shade of navy, and hangs slightly larger than his lithe frame. It was clearly made with someone else in mind. Hawke has summoned a taxi for them, which takes them to an estate bustling with life. There is a tension in the air, a formality to it, like a gathering of soldiers unused to letting go. Everywhere Fenris turns, there is someone with a pin upon their breast, a flaming sword which signifies their allegiance.

Servants pass by them carrying plates of food and drink, and Hawke snags a glass of wine for both herself and Fenris. She passes it to him as they follow Anders, as he is the one leading them on this quest. “I suppose, we mingle for now. Make ourselves known. When people are more distracted – drunker, I mean – we can slip out unnoticed,” Anders says to them. Hawke agrees with this plan and as always, has her arm linked in Fenris’s.

They flit from group to group, talking idly with whomever catches their eye, Fenris tuning out most of the speech. It is Hawke who talks for them, ever polite and gracious, seemingly comfortable amongst so many Templars and nobles. They have not yet set eyes on their host yet, this Ser Alrik, and Hawke is plainly aware of the way Anders jumps at everything, the unease with which he carries himself. He is looking and seeing only enemies. She reaches out to him and places a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

Hawke spies him before Fenris does. It starts as a light itch at her neck that grows into painful scratching, a howling of sorts, that begs her to run. Instead she keeps her feet firmly planted on the ground, and searches for the evil she can name. If not for the warning screaming in her skull, he would be as ordinary and boring as the rest of them. A beast in human skin, a monster with a smile. He is watching Fenris, and watching her watch him. She forces herself to be ice, and approaches Danarius.

She can feel the pressure of a hand pushing her back, a shove and a warning, originating from the woman who stands beside him. A night-witch, whose weak magic is easily countered by her will. Surrounded by Templars, she can only display the lowest of her power. A night-witch cannot hide her magic. A day-witch, like Hawke, can do much more without the Templars noticing. Hadriana scowls at her when Hawke does not stumble in her steps, and Hawke can only smile. As does Danarius. She plays the fool, and expects he will as well, but this is a dance where her steps must be careful and calculated.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before Serah. Might I introduce myself? Marian Hawke.” She extends her hand to him, and he takes it in his own gloved hand, and presses cold lips against her skin. He is wearing a dark suit, adorned almost like a military outfit. In his other, free hand, he holds a cane in which the hilt is a golden snake, and the wood a fine dark hue. The beard is trim and proper, a stately thing for his stately office. His face is filled with harsh, cruel lines, and behind those pale eyes, she sees only emptiness.

“My lady, what a pleasure. Magister Danarius Areli at your service, and my niece, Hadriana,” he says, his smile full of slime and malice. Hadriana does not hide her displeasure, this consorting with the enemy. Hawke resists the urge to laugh in her face. The fear she shows of the Templars is plain to see. There is fire behind her eyes, an underlying rage at her powerlessness and the way Hawke can dominate her here. Outside of this place… Hawke fears the true measure of Hadriana’s power. Unleashed, it would be a wild and fearsome thing.

“Ah, a magister from Tevinter? How prestigious,” Hawke raises her eyebrows and sips at the wine in her glass. She cannot hide the sarcasm in her tone, but Danarius just keeps on smiling. Behind her, she can feel Fenris’s eyes on her back. Without needing to look at him, and with only a flick of her wrist, she freezes him in place. She’ll deal with his anger later. She knows that Anders will see the effects of her spell, and she hopes he will keep Fenris calm.

“I’ve heard many things about you, Lady Hawke. Such a tragedy, what happened to your family.” This fucking prick. She hides gritted teeth behind a smile.

“The world is quite brutish. All one can do is carry on,” she replies calmly.

“I hear that you’ve been replacing them with others? In fact that you acquired someone rather recently? The white haired fellow.” _Replacing_ them. The grip she has on her glass is iron. She thinks about her promise to Varric, and repeats it like a mantra in her head. No stabbing.

“I am rather fond of taking in all the strays – the ones that belong to no one but themselves.”

“He’s from the Domitius family, correct? That name – in Tevinter it means to have been tamed. Is he tame for you, Lady Hawke?”

“Names can be changed.”

“But can ones nature?”

“Oh we are who we are. Fenris is his own man, his own master, and if he wishes to be untamed then he will stay that way,” Hawke says with another sip of wine, emptying her glass.

“You overstep, you little bitch,” Hadriana hisses forward, unable to hold back her tongue any longer.

“Enough Hadriana,” Danarius barks, glaring her back into her place. She shrinks under his gaze, like a kicked puppy, and hides behind him.

“I should be heading back to my company. A pleasure to meet you, Magister,” Hawke says sweetly, passing her glass to a nearby servant and strolling back to Fenris and Anders. She releases Fenris from her spell, but he is just as tense as though he were still captive. Together they walk down a side hallway, away from the party, and Anders guides them to what he believes to be Ser Alrik’s office. They find it empty, and full of books and papers. It is here that Fenris whirls on her.

“What were you thinking? They could have ended you in an instant. You’re known to them and you’ve made yourself an even larger target. You were foolish, and reckless, and, and –” He is pacing, his hands winding together and shaking, unable to settle. That monster and his bitch were right there – right in front of him, _looking at him_. Evaluated, measured, and he found himself back in Tevinter, serving them, being watched, evaluated and measured. She steps in front of him, stopping him in his tracks.

“Fenris look at me,” she has her hands on his face, centering him, turning him towards her. “You’re safe, they can’t hurt you.” She’s looking at him so calmly, so serenely, that he cannot help but slow his breathing, caught in her gaze.

“Hadriana can’t do anything here. She’s surrounded by Templars, just like the rest of us,” she says, her thumb gently brushing against his cheekbones.

“Danarius has no such leash,” he says quietly.

“What is he going to do? Slit my throat in the middle of the ballroom? We can’t kill them here either, Fenris,” her thumb is still moving in slow circles and the panic has almost left his bones.

“Then we should leave.”

“We still have a purpose here. We’ll complete that purpose and then we’ll leave.” While they’ve been talking, Anders has been busy rustling through the papers on the desk. There’s almost nothing of pertinent interest, his eyes scanning each page. Notes of different recipes, Templar rotations, boring mundane things that only mount his growing frustration. Until he snatches one from the pile.

“It says here that there’s been experiments… they’re holding cargo for these experiments in the cellar,” Anders exclaims triumphantly.

They all freeze when they hear talking in the hallway. A guard most likely, investigating for any intruders. Anders turns to Hawke, his eyes wide. “Get behind the door,” she hisses, waving him away with frantic hand movements. He does as she asks, flattening himself against the wall beside the bookshelves. Hawke drags Fenris by the hand back towards a desk with her. She hurriedly lifts her skirts as she sits on the desk, and drags him forward, between her legs. She holds him close, one arm around his waist and the other in his hair. Her chin is on his shoulder and he can feel her breathing as they wait.

His face is burning with the proximity of her, and knowing exactly what she is making this look like. Two lovers, stealing away from the party for a private moment. When the door clicks open, she moans instantly. It is a most vulgar thing, and the hands he has on her waist tighten. “Ahh, yes, my love, just like that,” she belts out in a breathy groan, right into Fenris’s ear. He cannot help his body’s instinctual reaction to it, and curses himself for his weakness. The door clicks shut as quickly as it had opened, and after a few moments of stillness, she sighs with relief.

Fenris rips away from her instantly, adjusting the front of his suit while she adjusts her skirts. She straightens and smiles, while Fenris’s face still burns from the performance she drew him into. “Those papers, Anders,” she says, “They say that ‘cargo’ is in the cellar? We should find that cellar then.”

Anders has his free hand across his mouth. “I can’t believe you can do something like that with a straight face,” Anders mumbles, the tips of his ears red, the knuckles on his other hand white as they grasp the papers.

“Maker’s breath, at least one of us can do what needs to be done. Weak like kittens you are,” she says, rolling her eyes at how flustered both Fenris and Anders were. “Let’s find this damned cellar and be rid of this place.” She practically marches out the door, shaking her head, after checking to ensure no other guards roamed the hallway. They follow her like scolded children, shoulders hunched and unable to look at one another. She walks with her hand on the wall, over wallpaper and furniture, searching for the direction to take.

She leads them into the kitchens, past servants who look at them out of the corner of their eyes but do not stop them. She leads them down stairs, where the air grows colder and the light grows darker. They find a door, heavy and shut, but unlocked. Fenris opens it for them, and Anders gasps when he sees what’s waiting. Bloody tools, shackles on the wall, and in the corner – a cell filled with people. They are all quiet, with a brand of a sunburst upon their foreheads.

These people watch the three approach them quietly and Hawke’s stomach turns when she realizes that these are witches – were witches. Hawke reaches through the bars, her hand trembling when she places it on the man’s face. “I can hear them. Oh Maker, I can hear them all. They’re _screaming_ ,” she whispers, looking into the man’s blank eyes. He stares back at her, expressionless, not refuting or confirming her claims. “They took their magic. They took their souls.” While Hawke is horrified, Anders is outraged.

“How can they do such a thing? It’s barbaric and inhumane. They neutered their minds, their magic. We need to – we need to do something. We need to make them pay for this,” he says, his voice low with anger. Fenris can only look in disgust at the people they have caged here like cattle, not unlike slaves in Tevinter. Not unlike he used to be caged. He feels the anger as keenly as Anders.

“We’ve calmed them – made them tranquil in the Maker’s light. We shall deliver you the same peace,” the voice comes from behind them, a booming authoritative thing, spoken from a beast of a man. Their host, at last. He’s in a military suit, the Templar emblem pinned to the breast of his suit. He draws the sword from his belt and points it at them. Unarmed as they are, Fenris immediately steps in front of Hawke. Anders is beside him, rolling up his sleeves.

Fenris draws the small dagger from his sleeve, the only thing he could smuggle in. Ser Alrik laughs at the sight of it, and brings down his much larger weapon to chop at his head. The sword comes to a stop before it reaches Fenris’s dagger, stopped by a shimmering in the air. Hawke has her hand up, the barrier slipping from her fingertips. Fenris takes this opportunity to leap at Alrik, a snarl on his lips. He drives the dagger upwards, under ribs, to pierce at the tender flesh underneath. In and out, he stabs in rapid succession.

Alrik makes a pathetic attempt to push him away, brandishing his sword, but it is Anders’s barrier which stops him this time. His eyes are bluer than usual, lit by the fire of what Alrik had done, the hate written in every line on his face. The magic crackles around him, like little lightning fires, and it takes Hawke to pull him back. “Anders, enough!” She barks, tugging on his arm, turning him away from Alrik as the Templar’s body begins to crackle with the same lightning that covers Anders.

She shakes his shoulders, and when that doesn’t work, she gives him a sharp slap across his cheeks. He comes back to himself, the lightning fading, and begins to murmur apologies. “It’s fine Anders, I understand,” Hawke smiles. “So much for Varric’s optimism that we wouldn’t turn this into a murder party.”

Alrik lays dead at Fenris’s feet, while Fenris grabs the nearest cloth to wipe the blood from his hand. “We should leave before more come,” he says, wiping the blood from his blade and placing it back inside his sleeve.

“What should we do with them?” Hawke turns back to the group of tranquil, watching all the events unfold through uninterested eyes.

“We should end their pain. They’re dead already,” Anders says quietly. The three of them spend a few moments looking at each other before Hawke finally nods. All it takes is a touch by Anders. A fingertip on the cage, a strong electrical current running through it, up their bodies, stopping their hearts instantly. They fall without a sound.

“Let’s go,” Hawke murmurs.

At the estate, Fenris and Anders sit in Hawke’s living room with grim expressions, accepting the glasses that Hawke hands them. It’s filled with alcohol that smells foul and tastes fouler, burning down Fenris’s throat. It is something she and Anders down without expression. “They can’t get away with this,” Anders says quietly, over the roar of the crackling fire. Hawke is sitting on the couch, slumped over with her legs stretched out, uncaring about being proper.

“They won’t,” Hawke’s voice is equally soft, but no less firm. They sit in relative silence, the two witches clearly downcast and distraught, while Fenris wonders over the strange magic that Anders showed. It was powerful, but not in the realm of the night-witches. These people, these witches, and their secrets. He rubs his brow and downs the remains of his drink.

“Oh good Hawke, you’re home. Oh! Hello Anders!” Merrill’s chipper attitude is clearly out of place here. Anders greets her dully, raising his glass in her general direction. “Sebastian de-coded the note for us!” Merrill hands a slip of paper to Hawke, who sits up eagerly and takes it from her. As her eyes scan the page, her frown grows deeper.

“This location,” she says, “it’s in the tunnels underneath the city. Part of the sewers.” Merrill bobs her head up and down in agreement. Hawke closes her eyes for a moment and sighs before rising. On her way out, she places a hand on Fenris’s shoulder.

“We should get some rest. It’s going to be another long night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)


	6. The Killing Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris looks at her and snarls. Hawke thinks he will tear out her throat.

The sun is setting over Kirkwall, the last vestiges of light filtering through the cracks of the city. Varric is leading the horses, reigns in his hand, while Aveline is beside him. The rest are silent inside the carriage. Isabela is turning a dagger over and over in her hands, her finger at the pointed tip, pressing into skin ever so carefully. Merrill has her meat cleaver sitting in her lap, and her fingers dance over the hilt of it. Fenris has his arms crossed, his coat open and displaying the pistol on his hip. Hawke is unarmed, leaning forward to look out the window of the carriage, and her stomach is turning with a nameless fear.

She’s watching the buildings go by, focusing on the sound of the horses’ hooves and the wheels of the carriage against the cobblestones. It helps her in trying to ignore the whispers in her ear. The things they speak of are of mistakes long past and the mistakes she will repeat. She squeezes her eyes closed, sighing as she shakes her head, and leans back in her seat with a hand on her brow. The carriage comes to a halt, Aveline dismounting and opening the doors. “Let’s get this done,” she says, the shotgun resting in her arms.

Varric is to stay with the carriage and the horses – there’s no place for a journalist amidst the muck and grime of the sewer, and Maker knows what else awaits them down there. Aveline and Fenris lift the heavy metal plate cover off the ladder that leads down into the tunnels. Hawke summons a ball of white light to the palm of her hand, and it floats to bob around her shoulders. She descends first, the metal of the ladder cold and wet. The sewers are rounded, narrow and cramped, with mold on the brick walls and the floor is lined with muddy water.

It smells of shit and worse, something Isabela immediately comments on the moment she’s down in the tunnels with the rest of them. It’s a smell that wrenches through you, and Fenris has no doubt they’ll all be burning their clothes after this. Aveline leads the way through, her boots splashing in the water. Hawke is close behind to light their path, Merrill and Isabela in the center while Fenris brings up the rear.

“Which way?” Aveline mutters to Hawke when they reach a fork in the tunnels. They are in a veritable maze, deep roads built by the slaves of Kirkwall in an age long past. They’re not only sewers for the city, but escape routes and hiding places for those running from their masters. Hawke breathes out slowly and points towards the left. Without Hawke’s sense of knowing where they need to go, they would no doubt be lost in the maze. Fenris guesses there are many bodies down here, lost souls who reached for freedom and died in the dark, hungry and alone.

They walk for a few minutes more, before the light Hawke is casting shows evidence of a larger room before them. A central area, where it spirals off into more winding tunnels. The place that was described in the Templar’s note. It’s the smell that reaches Hawke first. She is no stranger to the smell of death, but this is stronger than anything she’s ever encountered before. What makes her gag is the sweet twinge of it. It’s overpowering, like too much cheap perfume.

Attractive for beasts and those baser things hunting their kill, repulsive for those who have known too much life. Underneath that perfume is the flesh, the blood, the iron and the rot. It feels like drowning, the undercurrents of it pulling you down into its depths, choking the air from your lungs and she swallows the bile that rises in her throat. The light creeps away from Hawke, further into the room, and shows what is waiting for them.

They have found the lair – there is no doubt about that. The floors are wet with the water of the tunnels, but mixed with congealed blood and other unsavory things. The center of the room may be clear, but the walls are not. Large piles of corpses and carcasses are heaped together, dead animals, lost limbs, and all the misplaced creatures of the world. A grisly pile of meat and fat, a veritable feast of flesh for the creatures they are hunting. Flies buzz in an overwhelming swarm of noise, rats scurrying back and forth. Hawke is grateful for how little her light shows. It hides all the others that make their homes in dead things. Even then, the darkness does not hide the clusters of maggots squirming amongst all the flesh.

She wonders how many loved and unloved ones are buried here, and her chest tightens with the thought of being unable to save them. Her heart hammers wildly, beating at its cage, and all she can hear is the blood running through her veins, and all she can feel is cold. Aveline stands at her side and stares grimly at the scene before them. Hawke steals some strength from her, watching as the guardswoman hops down into the room, and outstretches her hand back to Hawke to help her down.

The others join them as well, Merrill looking pale and stricken, Isabela looking much of the same. Fenris is like Aveline, simply taking it all in with the look of a man who’s seen it all before. Hawke wonders exactly how many of these nests he’s seen. “What are we looking for?” Merrill whispers, and as if to answer her question, one of the piles shifts. Fenris and Aveline are immediately in front, guns drawn and pointed, Merrill with her meat cleaver in hand standing right behind them. Isabela draws her pistol as well, and casts a worried glance at Hawke.

“This is a trap. We need to leave,” Hawke says, “we need to leave _now_.” It is a warning that comes too late, as Danarius’s creatures hang from the ceiling, dropping down around them. They crawl from those piles of flesh, covered in human juices, grinning with bloody teeth. Aveline raises her shotgun and fires into them, blowing away a few, but more are ready to take their place. They crawl down the walls, creep in from all tunnels, eyes glowing red and teeth snapping together.

“Fenris,” they chant as one, “brother mine.” They are puppets on invisible strings, all speaking together, an overwhelming drum of noise. “Fenris,” they call, “slave.” Fenris is firing his pistol, taking them down one by one but making no dent in their numbers. The thralls circle them, forcing them all together. “Won’t you return to us? Come home with us!”

“Hawke we need a barrier _now_ ,” Aveline says firmly as the thralls are laughing at their circle, pressing in slowly. Hawke turns to Aveline, her eyes wide.

“You know what will happen if I –” She starts, but Aveline cuts her off with a glare.

“It doesn’t matter if we’re all dead!”

She lights up the barrier immediately, her arms outstretched, palms outward, and the air shimmers around them. The thralls crash into it and Hawke winces, her shoulders hunched as she bears the weight of it all. “Marian, Marian, Marian,” the thralls are singing, whispering around the barrier as they pound their fists against it. “Let us in, let us in, let us drink you in.” They’re baring their fangs, clawing at her magic, trying to break their way inside.

They are crawling over it from every angle, all Hawke has to do is look up to see gnashing teeth and frustrated fingers. “Back through the tunnel!” Aveline barks at them, using the protection of Hawke’s barrier to fire freely into the mass of thralls, Fenris and Isabela taking the opportunity to do the same. Merrill has taken over lighting their way, holding a fire in her palm. They can only move as fast as Hawke, and her steps are slow, fighting against the thralls that bar their way.

Each step is a shaking, plodding thing, her brows knitted together and her jaw clenched as she holds the barrier. Aveline climbs upwards back to the tunnel they came from, Fenris joining her, and together they help Hawke up. Each punch the thralls give to the barrier, Hawke seems to feel in her bones. The thralls have not stopped screeching, screaming, at them, forced to move by the power of Hawke’s barrier.

The others do their best to discourage the thralls from surrounding them, but guns are not enough to frighten the mindless horde. Hawke is gasping for breath, silent tears rolling down her cheeks, her arms shaking as she struggles to hold the barrier. If it falls, they will all be overrun. They will be more flesh for their nest, new limbs atop the piles, and more causalities of a nameless war whose bodies would never be found.

Fenris holsters his gun. He takes off his coat and hands it to Isabela. He approaches Hawke, his hands on either side of her face, bending down to look at her. She is shaking like a leaf, every part of her trembling, and she struggles to look him in the eye. “Hawke,” he tells her, his face close to hers so that she hears him over the thralls. “When it happens, let me out of the barrier. Do not let me back in. Do you understand?”

She looks at him for a moment before nodding, and with a gentle thumb, he wipes the tears from her cheeks. He removes his belt, his gun splashing into the water and he stands tall for a moment before hunching over, his face in his hands. There’s a growl in his throat as he hunches lower and lower, his own fingers digging into his flesh. Hawke can see his ears growing longer, ending in a point, his fingernails coloring to a darker hue, changing into claws of their own. When he pulls his hands away from his face, his green eyes are now a brighter yellow, and fangs protrude from his mouth.

He looks at her and snarls, as if he no longer recognizes her. For a moment, she thinks he will tear out her throat. His scream is more of a howl as he drops to his hands and knees. He balls his hands into fists and punches at the brick beneath them, until his knuckles are bruised and bloody. It distracts from the sound of bones snapping and breaking, and the unnatural way his body shifts under his clothes. It’s as though his bones are rearranging themselves, transforming into something distinctly inhuman.

Clothes stretch and rip and tear as he changes, growing and growling, silvery fur appearing over his skin. The thralls have stopped screaming. They are whispering now, an undercurrent of worry spreading through their ranks, and even Aveline and Isabela have stopped firing to watch. When Fenris stands again, almost twice his normal height, long and pointed, he no longer has the face of a man. Rather, it is that of a wolf.

Fur covers his body, limbs long enough to run on all fours, his eyes glowing yellow atop a snarling snout. Drool drips from his fangs, fingernails blackened and curled, and he greets the thralls with a mighty roar. His head whips around to look at Hawke, and all hesitation leaves her. She draws the barrier closer to herself, pushing him out of it. The wolf gets to work immediately, a silver flash amongst red ones, tearing thralls in half. He closes his jaws around their necks, and spills blood and guts with his claws. The thralls are terrified, scrambling away, but a few still think they can face this beast and win. They leap upon his back, the wolf howling at their insolence, as he slams himself against the walls of the sewers to shake them loose.

Merrill is gripping her cleaver hard with one hand, the flame still in the other, and her eyes are wide as she says, “we need to help him!” The thralls have their advantage in numbers, and they will throw all they have at him. Aveline is standing slack-jawed, and gives Hawke a look that promises they will be discussing this afterwards. Hawke moves herself to stand behind Merrill, one hand wrapping around over her shoulder, her head dropping to Merrill’s other shoulder.

“I agree,” Hawke says. “We need to burn them all. Cleanse them. Merrill, please.”

“I don’t know if I have enough power for that! And I might hurt Fenris!” Hawke squeezes her tightly.

“I’ll help you. Focus on the fire,” Hawke sighs. Merrill directs Aveline and Isabela to stand behind her, giving her cleaver to Isabela, and they flank Hawke, before Merrill stretches out her arms. Her palms face the wolf with bloody teeth and the thralls which are screaming again. Hawke tightens their barrier as much as she dares, before reaching out and covering the wolf in one as well. Merrill purses her lips and squeezes her eyes closed before letting the fire loose.

A veritable dragon she becomes, fire roaring through the tunnels, engulfing all thralls which stand in their way. Hawke pours magic into her, fanning the flames, and the rank smell of the sewers changes to that of burning flesh. Hawke is cringing at the power being ripped from her, her hands shaking as she struggles to hold onto the two barriers. She gasps for breath, chest heaving, and the blackness engulfs her right eye.

Merrill pulls the magic back into herself, shaking her hands as though she had burned the tips, and the tunnel is illuminated by the still burning bodies. The barriers fall immediately, the danger passed, but Hawke does not move from where she is leaning on Merrill. The only thing besides them left standing is one very angry wolf.

He turns and stalks towards them, blood and drool dripping from his mouth, fur stained red with fallen thralls. He is growling and snarling, dropping to all fours as he approaches fresh meat to kill. “What in Andraste’s name?” Aveline is saying, raising the shotgun in her hands, aiming at the skull of the wolf. Isabela swears much more viscerally, a vulgar echo to Aveline’s outburst. That’s enough to get Hawke’s attention, raising her head from Merrill’s shoulder.

“Enough!” She yells, raising one hand gathering her magic to her palm. She pushes, throwing her magic at the wolf. The wolf is blown away from them, flying through the air and falling onto his back. She stands, away from Merrill, her eye still darkened, and moves towards the wolf. Her outstretched hand slowly curls into a fist and for the first time the wolf howls not with anger, but with pain. Hawke is drawing him out, forcing the return of the man. Hawke’s hand immediately snaps to her face, covering her eye as she leans against the tunnel.

The transformation from wolf to man is no less agonizing. The body shakes and convulses with the same sickening crunch of bone, the fur is falling from his body, claws and fangs as well, all joining the mess of the tunnels. Hawke staggers forth, falling to her knees beside Fenris, pulling him closer to her until his head is resting on her shoulder, his back leaning on her chest. The black has gone from her eye now, and they are instead both red-rimmed and sad.

Isabela drapes his coat over Fenris’s waist, trying to give one semblance of decency. They can all see that the markings do not just make an appearance on his face and hands. They cover his entire body, twisting lines of white, burned upon his skin. His eyes are closed, and the only thing that assures them he is still alive is the slow movement of his chest. His face is covered in blood, mostly centered on his mouth, and his arms and hands are drenched in it. It’s splattered haphazardly across the rest of him, evidence of the bloodshed spilled in the name of the wolf.

“Did you know?” Aveline stands over them, staring down at Hawke. She lifts her head to look at the guardswoman, at the fury plain upon her brow. “Did you know that he’s a werewolf?” Hawke does not hesitate in her answer.

“Yes.” Aveline immediately grunts with frustration, followed by a guffaw of displeasure as she rubs her face with her hand.

“He could have killed us all. They’re _beasts_ , not men. No wonder Danarius is so keen on him. Maker’s breath,” Aveline says, pacing now. “He’s not safe.”

“Am I? Is Merrill? Isabela? We’re all things that shouldn’t exist, Aveline, you know that. Do you want all of us to leave? Tell me what you want Aveline,” Hawke holds Fenris to her a little tighter, not willing to relinquish him. Aveline stops pacing, and sighs.

“I’m sorry Hawke, I know, it’s just… a bit of a shock. Some warning would have been appreciated.” Hawke immediately softens, sighing, and apologizes.

“I never thought it would be necessary for him to reveal himself. I am sorry Aveline. I should have told you.”

“Past is past. Let’s get out of here. I’ve had enough of this place for a lifetime,” Aveline says, bending down and passing Hawke her shotgun. She replaces it with Fenris, hoisting him in her arms. He’s limp but groaning, Isabela putting one arm around Hawke’s waist to help her walk with them.

“That was quite exciting,” Merrill says, clapping her hands together, Isabela guffawing as she hands the cleaver back to her. When they reach the ladder, Aveline shuffles Fenris so that he is over her shoulder, Varric helping to hoist him up and out of the tunnels.

“You all stink,” Varric says, wrinkling his nose. The bottom of Merrill’s white dress is stained brown and foul, as is Hawke’s. They are covered in things they do not want to name, all of them giving Varric a dry look as they clamber into the carriage. Fenris is lying on his side, still draped in his coat, his head on Hawke’s lap. She is running her fingers through his hair, gentle strokes over his head as she leans back and closes her eyes.

* * *

For the second time in too few days, Fenris wakes with a groan. He is slow to sit up in the bed, pressing a hand to his head to try and quell the pounding headache. Hawke rises from the chair by his bed, dressed in a white lace blouse and plain skirt, to sit on the edge beside him, a hand on his bare chest. “Tell me what hurts,” she says softly and he carefully taps his skull. She tucks locks of hair behind her ear before she moves closer to him, pressing her fingers against his temples.

“Apologies, I’m not good at this, not like Anders,” she says as her fingertips glow with soft light and almost immediately, he’s flooded with a soothing feeling. When she pulls her hands away, she pulls his headache with it.

“How did I get out of the tunnels?” He asks her hoarsely, his throat scratched and raw. At his question, Hawke smiles.

“Aveline carried you like a princess. Bodahn helped me wash you, and put some pants on you.” Fenris opens his mouth for a moment, but the words die and he merely leans back against the headboard with a chuckle, his cheeks burning red. Hawke chuckles with him, until the laughter fades from Fenris and he grows serious.

“They know, now. What I am.” Hawke nods. “I have run from being… this, all my life. Danarius desired me for it. I was foolish to think that I could ever stop running from it,” Fenris closes his eyes and sighs. Hawke’s hand slips into his and she gives it a small squeeze.

“It doesn’t change who you are, Fenris. What are you are to all of us. You saved us Fenris. Without you, we would have died,” Hawke tells him quietly. Fenris is silent at that, but his eyes open to look at her. Her long dark hair is flowing over her shoulders, framing her face, blue eyes bright and kind. “I told you, when we first met, that I knew what you were. It didn’t change anything for me then, it doesn’t change anything for me now.” She’s smiling at him, and he smiles back momentarily before sighing.

“The first thing I can remember is Hadriana marking me with her magic, Danarius’s fangs biting into my neck. They had hoped her spell would allow him to make me a mindless thrall. All it did was take away my memories. Whatever life I had before Danarius…. It’s gone,” he tells her quietly, his thumb moving over her knuckles as he holds her hand. “I had hoped I would be able to build a life away from him. Another thing I was foolish for thinking.” Hawke is frowning now, her free hand moving to his cheek, her touch cool and welcoming.

“I don’t think it’s foolish Fenris. I can help you,” she says. He leans forward, his touch on her cheek mirroring hers, her lips parted slightly.

“I am an escaped slave, and a werewolf. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Why on earth would that bother a witch?”

“You raise a good point,” Fenris says softly, before Hawke dips forward and presses her forehead against his. He welcomes her touch, smiling slightly, and she wraps her arm around his neck, her other hand still caught in his. She winds her hand into his hair, sighing gently as she closes her eyes. They stay there for a few moments, close and quiet, and when Hawke pulls away, she has her hand on his cheek again, her thumb sliding over his bottom lip.

“You need your rest,” she says quietly before brushing locks of hair away from his face. “Sleep, Fenris. We’ll talk in the morning.” Hawke’s hand falls from his brow to his jaw, down his neck, brushing against his chest as she rises. He relinquishes the hold he has on her hand as she moves, his hand falling back to the bed as she leaves his embrace.

Hawke stands at his door for a moment, rolling her bottom lip under her teeth, before she finds the light switch with her hand, plunging him in darkness and closing the door. His hand is at his lip, tracing where she touched him. He sinks into the bed and squeezes his eyes closed. He reminds himself that he’s meant to be killing witches. To be killing monsters, like himself. This taste of pure freedom she has given him is intoxicating and it clouds his mind, blinding him from his purpose. He rolls over and tries to purge Hawke from his thoughts, even while he is still touching his lip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)


	7. The Sleep of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The blood is smeared around his mouth, dribbling down his chin and throat, splattered on his chest and arms. There’s a woman lying on the marble floor in front of him, her green eyes wide and blankly staring, her mouth open, and the throat ripped out of her. Red blood mixes with red hair, and Danarius and Hadriana are laughing.

In the weeks that follow their excursion in the tunnels, Hawke is more cautious of every lead they receive. She spends most of her time with her tarot cards, or pouring over her maps, angrily stewing over the fact that they were successfully lured into the tunnels. Too eager for an end, too eager to fight, Danarius and Hadriana were playing with them. Hawke did not intend to dance to their expectations any longer. Today she is on her knees in the garden, wearing a pair of old overalls, a streak of dirt across her nose.

Her hair is tied back from her face loosely, locks of hair stuck to her forehead as she works at dislodging the weeds between her plants. She grimaces as she digs at the earth, pulling out weed after weed, accruing a pile beside her. She’s startled slightly when Fenris joins her on his knees, hands pulling at the weeds she had not yet gotten to. They work together like that in silence, stealing small glances at each other.

The sun beats down mercilessly upon them, and soon enough, Fenris’s back is soaked in sweat. Hawke is doing no better as she sits back on her haunches and wipes the sweat from her brow. Fenris chuckles when all that really does is smear more dirt across her face. She scrunches her face together in disapproval of his laughter, but soon she is smiling as well.

There has been a comfortable friendship between them lately, brought on by their moment of closeness after the tunnels. He finds she is touching him more often – a hand on his back as she reads something over his shoulder, a touch to his wrist when she wants his attention, the way she walks with him arm and arm, standing closer than she used to. He is unused to such consideration, such care, but she has made it easy to accept.

He finds that even here, dirty and sweating so, she is breathtakingly beautiful. The way she squints up at the sun, as though her glare could soften it, then turns back to her task, never to be deterred. He admires that dedication in her, her endless resolve towards her goals. She carries his goals with her now, and she bears them wonderfully.

Bodahn interrupts their work, bowing before he speaks, “Father Sebastian wishes to speak to you, my lady.” Hawke takes the opportunity to sit back, her knees cracking as she stretches her legs. She looks up at Bodahn and smiles.

“Invite him to the garden, would you please? Some water would be excellent as well.” When Bodahn returns, he does so with two glasses, one he hands to Fenris and one he hands to Hawke, Sebastian trailing in behind him. Bodahn bows and takes his leave while both Hawke and Fenris down their water quickly. With a satisfied sigh, Hawke places the glass in the grass beside her and smiles up at Sebastian.

“Have you come to offer your services, Father?” She asks good-naturedly, gesturing at the plants. Sebastian chuckles slightly before replying.

“I’m afraid not Hawke. I’m here to solicit _your_ services,” he says as he extends a hand down to her. She brushes her hands on her overalls before placing hers in Sebastian’s, the priest helping her to her feet.

“Oh? What can I do for you?” Hawke asks as she stretches.

“A sister of the faith has been overcome by what we believe to be possession. She’s a good person, Hawke, and I was hoping you could perform an exorcism,” Sebastian asks her in a low voice, a hint of desperation around the edges of his words. Hawke frowns slightly, but nods soon after.

“Of course Sebastian. Might I suggest you ask Anders to join us as well? He would be useful to have there with me.”

“I will go see him right away.”

“Excellent. I’ll meet you at the Chantry before dinner? Let’s say… 4 o’clock? If that suits you, of course.”

“It does. And… thank you Hawke.” Sebastian gives her a warm smile, his hands on her shoulders squeezing gently, before turning and leaving. Hawke sighs, bending down to pick up her glass, her fingers running up and down the side of it.

“I shouldn’t be gone too long this afternoon, but it really depends how difficult –”

“I’m coming with you,” Fenris says as he stands beside her, his own glass in his hands. She looks surprised for a moment, before softening.

“You really want to? Are you sure?”

“I’m coming with you,” he tells her again. Hawke shrugs and walks in the direction of the kitchen, a smile on her face. Hours later, washed and dressed, she stands by the door waiting for their taxi, dressed in a plain black skirt and white blouse.

She plays with a stray thread of lace by her neck, her other arm crossed around her waist. He’s chosen to wear simple things as well, none of the ornately designed things Hawke has bought for him, choosing a working man’s image instead. She smiles when he joins her. “I should warn you, these things are never easy. The magic that’s involved… if you stay close, you’ll be drawn into it.”

“Someone has to keep an eye on you. You attract trouble like flies,” he grumbles. She barks out a laugh.

“Says you!” They talk more in the taxi, Hawke explaining what’s involved in an exorcism. She takes his hand in hers, flipping it so that his palm is facing upwards towards them.

“The demon constructs a maze. A waking dream that has no focus. I give it that focus, construct into something we can understand. It will be like walking in a house, from room to room,” her fingers tap across his palm. “It is a path that we follow, to destroy the demon. The demon will try to deter us, to turn us from the path. A dream that turns to nightmare. We must not turn from the path.” Her fingertips follow the lines across his palm, cracked things in his skin. “If we do, we are lost.”

“Anders is particularly helpful with these things,” she gives him a mischievous smile, “but I don’t want to ruin the surprise. You’ll see soon enough.”

Both Sebastian and Anders greet them when they arrive, Sebastian leading the other three to the rooms inside in the Chantry. Fenris’s eyes wander, having never stepped foot inside of the Chantry before. He’s never had to, and frankly, he’s never wanted to. He’s never felt particularly close to the Maker. It is a hall of white marble, a grand statue of Andraste in the distance, her arms spread wide to embrace her faithful. The ceiling is blue with dotted stars, imitating the night sky. The air is thick with the smell of burning candles and incense, and he is grateful when Sebastian closes the door behind them, leaving all of it behind.

The room is plain and threadbare, with only a bed and a nightstand. Upon the nightstand is a light as well as a glass of some liquid, along with vials and syringes. “We deemed it best to sedate her,” Sebastian explains, gesturing to the woman lying on the bed. By all appearances, she is sleeping peacefully, her hands linked over her stomach, tucked in neatly and tightly. Hawke moves to her bedside, putting a hand on her forehead, brushing away stray strands of hair. To Fenris, she looks like Andraste herself tending to one of her flock.

“What’s her name?” Hawke asks, not looking away from the woman.

“Moira,” Sebastian tells her. Hawke smiles and greets the sleeping woman with a little hello.

“Sebastian, I know you find the process… unpleasant. You may wish to leave now.” Sebastian tells her he understands, wishes her the best of luck, before exiting quietly out the door, closing it behind him.

“I can hear her, like music,” Hawke murmurs, her hand still on Moira’s head. She sits on the bed next to her, it creaking as she does, Anders moving to sit on the ground, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “She sounds so sad,” Hawke is saying as she frowns.

“You’ll want to sit as well,” Anders says to Fenris, indicating he should take a seat. Fenris does as he’s told, joining Anders on the ground, sitting next to him while Hawke murmurs something he can’t hear. She presses her forehead against Moira’s, both hands glowing slightly while pressed against her cheeks, and Fenris is suddenly struggling to keep his eyes open. When he’s able to open them again, he sits in a room of white.

Hawke is standing in front of him, bending down with an arm outstretched to help him to his feet. There is a shadow standing behind her, a formless dark thing, with its arms around her waist, its head on her shoulder. He stares at it, then back to her. “There’s not much I can do about that, unfortunately. My demon is always close,” she tells him. That’s when his eyes flick to Anders. There is no demon standing behind him.

He looks younger here, his eyes almost glowing with life, and he stretches, the wings moving with him as he does. Like those of a dove, but much larger, they are brilliant things of white attached to his back, feathered and glorious. “Most witches are cursed by a demon. Some lucky few attract angels,” Hawke explains, smiling with her arms crossed. “It’s always wonderful to see him like this,” she tells Fenris quietly.

The only other thing in this room is a single door, a plain one, painted black. Hawke puts her hand on the doorknob and then hesitates, turning to Fenris. “The demon… it’s trying to stop us the best it can. It will show us our darkest moments, try to drown us in despair, to keep us from going forward. It will try and keep us where we are, stuck in a memory. We must keep moving, even if we must pull each other along. Once I open this door, it begins. Deep breaths everyone,” she says with a smile. With a simple turn and a click, the door opens.

Hawke is in her nightgown, white and laced, a knife shaking in her hands. She’s on her hands and knees, by a body that looks shockingly similar to her. Dark raven hair, blue eyes open and staring blankly, throat torn up and guts spilling on the ground. “I’m sorry Carver,” Hawke is saying as she cuts into her palm, “it’s too late for Bethany, but I can still save you.” She’s drawing glyphs around the body of her brother in her blood, crying and shaking all the while.

Fenris recognizes this room as the cellar in Hawke’s estate and he also recognizes the wounds Carver carries. They are ones made by thralls, the method of killing which they prefer. He feels sick, knowing that if he had not come to Kirkwall with Danarius at his back, his thralls would not have come killing with him either. He brought the devil to Hawke’s doorstep and condemned her brother to death in doing so.

“Help me, help me,” Hawke is saying, on her knees, arms wrapped around herself, rocking back and forth. The shadow of the demon stands behind her, draping an arm over her shoulders like a loving mother. The black is invading her eyes as she looks at it, mouth open and holding her breath. When the darkness around her has made its way inside and her eyes are fully darkened, her mouth sets in a grim line. She has her hands over the glyph and the body, palm still dripping blood.

“Fuck,” Anders hisses, striding forward with his arms outstretched. He clasps both sides of Hawke’s face, staring into the blankness of her eyes. “Hawke, come back to me. We’ve been here before. You know this doesn’t work.”

Fenris can’t tell if Hawke knows what Anders is saying, not until her brow knits together in confusion, her arms dropping to her side. “Anders?” Her voice has a sharp edge to it, a husky undertone which is distinctly not her voice, but the voice of the demon inside her. Fenris realizes now why Hawke is so well versed in exorcism. She had been possessed before. Not a night-witch, not working with a demon, but allowing the demon to take her over fully. A weakness he never knew she had.

He thinks of all the nights spent at her kitchen table with a cup of tea, talking about nothing until she could fall asleep the moment her head hit the pillow. She had invited the demon in and then rejected it. No wonder it haunted her so. No wonder she avoided use of her magic, trying not to draw its attentions. She fears being possessed once again. He steps beside her, and places his hand on her shoulder.

“Hawke,” he says to her, “it’s time to go.” She’s frowning hard at him before her mouth opens slightly, and the scene begins to slip away like ashes in the wind. She’s in her normal dress, eyes blue and bright, knife gone from her hand. The room is white and plain, with no body nor blood staining any bit of it. Anders removes his hands from her face, and Fenris removes his hand from her shoulder. He turns away from her, and wrestles with the fact that Hawke had willingly allowed something so foul to take control of her.

“Thank you, Anders. I lost myself for a moment,” she says softly, taking his hands in hers and giving them a slight squeeze before turning, taking a steadying breath. She smooths down the front of her dress, closing her eyes and shaking her head slightly, before she walks the length of the room. Her shoulders are squared, her jaw set, and she will not meet their eyes. It is clear to see she is ashamed of her weakness. She stands at the end of the room, her hand on the doorknob to whatever is waiting for them in the next room.

Anders is sitting on the floor, cradling the body of a man in his arms, his wings stretched over them protectively. He runs his hand against the man’s cheek and he is smiling sadly. Hawke is quiet, wordless, as she kneels down in front of Anders. He looks up at her, blinking back tears. “I know it isn’t real, it’s just… good to see him again,” he says. The room they are standing in is familiar to Fenris, and he knows it to be Anders’s clinic. When he walks forward to stand beside Hawke, he can see the wound in the body’s stomach, that pooling of red.

“My husband, Karl,” Anders says to Fenris. “The clinic was his idea. All he wanted to do was help people who had nowhere else to go. He was a good person and the Templars killed him for it.” Anders drops his head to Karl’s, pressing their foreheads together, holding them tightly together. His wings close in as well, as if he could shield Karl from events that had already passed.

“I’m sorry Anders,” Hawke says quietly, “but we need to move on.”

“I know, I know, just give me a moment.” Hawke nods and stands, pulling Fenris away with her as she walks towards a wall to give Anders some space. The illusion is slowly slipping away, falling to pieces from the outside in, until Karl turns to dust and ash in Anders’s arms. His arms shake at the sudden emptiness, and he takes a steadying breath before rising. He walks past Hawke and Fenris, his hand hard on the doorknob, pushing the door open.

Fenris whirls at their intrusion, blood on his teeth and on his hands. He’s not the wolf, not fully, but he’s not the man either. He wavers somewhere in between, eyes yellowed, ears pointed, fangs protruding and claws curled. The blood is smeared around his mouth, dribbling down his chin and throat, splattered on his chest and arms. There’s a woman lying on the marble floor in front of him, her green eyes wide and blankly staring, her mouth open, and the throat ripped out of her. Red blood mixes with red hair, and Danarius and Hadriana are laughing.

“Well done, my little wolf,” Danarius is saying to him, “my loyal pet.” Hawke strides forward, stepping over the body to stand before Fenris. He looks at her, eyes wide and confused, turning towards Danarius for instruction.

“Look at _me_ , Fenris,” Hawke says, a finger on his chin to pull his face back to hers. “You are free now. You don’t belong to them any longer.” Fenris frowns, and his arms dart out to grasp at her arms. She does not flinch, does not panic, even as she feels the claws biting at her skin. “You’re a free man, Fenris, and we’re going to kill Danarius.” He steps closer to her, the blood still dripping from his fangs, his brows furrowed. After a moment, his head drops to her shoulder.

“I don’t know who she is. Danarius told me to kill her and so I did. Why did I do that Hawke? Why does it hurt so much?” The blood and the gore billows away, taking Danarius and Hadriana’s laughter with it, but Fenris stays very still. Hawke winds a hand into his hair, her cheek resting against his head.

“I don’t know Fenris. But I promise you, you’ll never have anyone else telling you what to do,” she says to him, as Fenris lets go of her arms to hang his own limply by his side. He takes a shuddering breath before pulling away from her, all evidence of the wolf gone, leaving the man whole in its place. Hawke gives him a small smile, a hand on his cheek, before they move towards the next door.

“You day-witches! You’re all so frustrating, trying to spoil my fun,” the demon says, wearing the guise of a priest, whose eyes hold only darkness. They stand in the Chantry, in the great hall, and the statue of Andraste is weeping tears of blood. At its feet is Moira, on her knees, arms wrapped around herself and crying as she rocks back and forth.

“Make it stop, please,” she begs, looking primarily at Anders.

“Hadriana said you would come, Hawke. Especially after you burned my brethren right out of that Templar’s soul,” the demon laughs, throwing back its head, mouth open much wider than humanly possible, lined with pointed teeth. “We all know how hard you’ve been pushing yourself lately. Aren’t you worried Hawke? Don’t you feel your demons tendrils in your brain? Best to watch your step before you lose yourself again.” The shadow wrapped around Hawke tightens its grip, while Hawke grimaces and closes her hands into fists.

“What does she expect to gain from possessing a sister?” Hawke asks the demon. She receives only laughter at first while the demon moves to Moira’s side.

“Oh, nothing, she’s already served her purpose. Which I won’t be telling you, thank you very much,” the demon runs its fingers through Moira’s hair, only making her sob harder.

“What company you keep. A wolf and an angel? Remarkable. I know when I am defeated. Do your work, Hawke. Hadriana will be seeing you soon,” the demon smirks, a forked tongue wetting its lips. He spreads his arms open wide, an invitation of death. Hawke and Anders work in tandem, both of them each raising one fist. Their hands glow with a power that surrounds the demon, banishing it into a million laughing pieces.

Fenris wakes back in the Chantry, the real Chantry, and Anders is slowly waking up beside him as well. Hawke is lying on the bed beside Moira, her arms around the woman, holding her as she cries into Hawke’s chest. “I know, I know, you’re safe now,” Hawke is murmuring, running her hands through her hair, pressing kisses to the top of Moira’s head.

Anders knocks quietly on the door before opening it, gesturing to Sebastian that it’s safe to enter. He takes over comforting Moira from Hawke. “I’ll stay here, make sure everything else is alright,” Anders tells Hawke as they stand at the door together. Hawke nods, giving his arm a short rub and a small smile, before leaving with Fenris behind her.

The ride back to the estate is quiet, Hawke leaning her head against the carriage with her eyes closed. Supper is eaten separately, the both of them in their respective rooms. When Hawke travels downstairs later for their nightly ritual, Fenris is already in the kitchen waiting for her. He stands when he hears her, turning to her with a frown. “You allowed yourself to be possessed,” he says, his voice low and accusing.

“I did. I sought the demon and have since pulled the darkness from myself. It hunts me still, as you’ve seen,” she says quietly. She has her arms crossed, wrapped in her white nightgown and black robe, hugging the fabric to herself. He approaches her quickly, and she steps back without thinking, until she is against a wall. He is standing in front of her, still frowning.

“You don’t defend your actions? Do you expect me to forget what I saw?” Fenris demands it of her angrily, his hand flat against the wall by her head.

“No, I don’t. I expect you to understand what desperation feels like,” Hawke tells him calmly. He looks away from her, thinking of all the things he’d done to stay free. The bodies he’d left trailing behind him, the nights spent curled up in a ball, in fear, sleeping in all the forgotten nooks and crannies, the need to be far from Danarius. Desperate to be away from Danarius. He’d have killed the world a thousand times over to be free.

In one swift movement, Hawke has her hands on his wrists, switching their positions, pressing him against the wall, putting all her weight against him. She has his arms pinned to the wall by his head, taking him by surprise. Her mouth is set in a grim line, her brows furrowed together. She’s looking up at him with clear blue eyes and he cannot look away. “We’ve all done things we’re not proud of Fenris. The most we can do is remember, and try to be better,” she tells him.

He makes no move to try and escape her hold. He reddens, feeling every inch of her against him, seeing every freckle on her face. She feels so warm against him, a type of human heat he has not felt in a very long time. Different from any other time she had touched him, more intimate, more on purpose. Something he does not want to lose.

“I apologize, Hawke, for my anger,” he says to her quietly. He looks down at her, following the gentle curve of her jaw, the freckles on her neck. He follows them down and realizes how sheer her nightgown is, and how the way she’s pressing against him makes the swell of her breasts even more noticeable. He reddens even more than he already was, and Hawke follows his line of sight. She steps away from him instantly.

“Forgiven,” she says, letting go of his wrists. His arms fall slowly to his sides, even as she moves her arms upwards. She holds him there, cupping his face in her hands. She smiles then, gives his cheek a small pat, and turns back towards the stove, her hand on the kettle. “Tea?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)


	8. Dark Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re slipping, the demon whispers in her ear.

The moment he agrees to the offer of tea, she’s humming as it boils and gathering their usual cups. He sits himself down at the table, trying to clear his mind. She’s drawn the robe slightly tighter around herself, hiding the sheerness of the gown underneath. She pours the tea, still humming, giving him a smile as she pushes a cup towards him, and sits opposite him.

“What the demon showed about me…” He’s gripping the tea cup hard, staring intently at the steam as though it would provide him answers. “She said she was there to free me. The red-haired woman. It wasn’t just her, there was a group of them.” Hawke sits quietly, hands in her lap, listening intently to Fenris. “They had snuck into the estate during the night. Not unnoticed. Danarius and Hadriana allowed them to get to me.”

“The woman… she told Danarius that I was not his property. They fought for my freedom. It was beyond my experience,” he says, his fingertip tracing the rim of the cup. He is silent for a few moments, before sipping at the tea. When he puts his cup down, he is frowning.

“Danarius laughed at their efforts and ordered me to kill them. So I did. I killed them all,” he says, staring at his hand, flexing it into a fist. He closes his eyes and he can still see the blood on his hands. “The woman begged me to remember her. To come home. I didn’t even know her name. I tore out her throat.”

Hawke reaches across the table, to take his hand. He is hesitant for a moment, before he closes his hand around hers. She is warm, her hands soft, and he gently sighs. “This can’t be easy to talk about,” she says softly.

“I’ve not told anyone about it before. I’ve never wanted to.” Hawke smiles. It’s a sad smile, a cautious smile, but one he appreciates nonetheless.

“You know what always makes me feel better?” She squeezes his hand before rising. “Chocolate.” She shuffles through cupboards before she finds chocolate wrapped in white foil. She settles a pot on the stove and lights it before dumping the chocolate in. She stirs occasionally until she finds a consistency she likes, pouring it into a bowl. She settles it on the table before opening the ice box and placing a bowl of strawberries beside it.

“Hawke, what –” she takes a strawberry, dips it in the chocolate and presents it to him with a beaming grin on her face. When he takes it, she reaches for her own, raising the strawberry to her lips and devouring it, wiping away the small amount of juice that dribbles down her chin with delicate fingers. He chuckles, following her lead, savoring the sweetness of it.

“You are unlike any woman I have ever met,” he tells her.

“Of that, I’ve no doubt,” she says, greedily dipping in strawberry after strawberry to drench them in chocolate before eating them.

“You’re going to finish it all,” he says, reaching for the bowl. She snatches it away first, raising her eyebrows and giving him a sly smile as she holds it away from him. He leans over the table, reaching for it, but she merely leans back and holds it above her head. It forces him to rise, and she rises as well in order to escape him. She dips a finger into the chocolate and licks it away as he moves to trap her in a corner.

She does her best to fend him off, but his height gives him an advantage here, and there is nowhere for her to hide the bowl. He snatches it away from her, his fingers dipping into the chocolate, ripping it away from her grasp. She’s smiling still as he places the bowl on a counter beside them, chocolate dripping from his fingers. The smile turns shyer, then mischievous. He watches as she reaches for his hand, and raises his fingers to her mouth.

Her mouth is wet and warm, and he can feel the way her swirls over his fingers, finding every last bit of chocolate. She’s looking at him as she sucks, and he can feel his face flush. His fingers escape her mouth with a slight pop, louder in the silence, and she gives his fingers one last lick for good measure. He steps closer to her as her cheeks redden, his hand dropping back to his side. A quick flash of pink as her tongue escapes her mouth to find the last stains of chocolate on her lips.

Something breaks between them and he has a hand at the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair. He drops his mouth to her neck. Teeth around soft flesh, sucking gently to make a mark while feeling her throat rumble with a groan. She has one hand on his back, fingertips dancing across his shoulders, and the other is wound in his hair. His free hand reaches for her thigh, raising it slightly as he twists his body into hers.

He’s lost in a haze of need, a heady blend of strawberries and Hawke’s own intoxicating scent. His hips buck against hers, pressing into her with hungry need. His cock is straining hard, forcefully, against his trousers and as he grinds against her, he can feel her hips rocking receptively. Her leg, which he keeps raised, bends so that it’s on his ass, pushing and encouraging movement. He presses his length against her greedily, against her growing wet, and she mewls at the feeling. He wants to take her, he wants to fuck her, he wants to – “Maker, Fenris,” she cries and that pulls him back to reality.

“Forgive me,” he rasps as he pulls away, stepping away from her. He covers his mouth with the back of his hand, his face as red as the strawberries they had been eating. Her hair is disheveled, her cheeks pink, and her robe is slipping down her shoulder. She is breathing heavily, chest rising up and down, and that is all it takes for him to turn and practically run out of the kitchen, worrying he would lose control. He leaves her there, and she watches him go, her head leaning back against the wall. Her hands wind into the fabric of her gown by her thighs, and she bites her bottom lip as she moves, rubbing her hand against herself.

He paces around his room, running a hand through his hair, thinking that moving will erase his actions. He rubs his face with a groan as he unbuttons his shirt, his trousers, removing all of it and sliding into bed. He stares at the ceiling for what seems like a long time, before he turns, rolling onto his hands and knees, cock hanging swollen and red underneath him.

He thinks of Hawke with his fingers in her mouth, the way she sucked at them as though they were the only thing that mattered in the world. His hips roll against the bed, grinding into the mattress. He groans, imagining Hawke, wondering what she would look like undressed beneath him. Her breasts would be perfect, that he knows. Freckled even, like her face.

He would smear the lipstick on her, kissing it away until there’s no trace of it left, replacing it with red marks of his own. He would undo her coiffed hair, so that it flows over her shoulders, spread around her head like a darkened halo. He reaches a hand downward, wrapping it around his cock, stroking at it hard.

He grunts as he fucks into his hand, hips moving on their own accord. He can still taste the strawberries in his mouth, and thinks Hawke’s cunt would taste even sweeter. She would writhe for him, moan for him, she would scream his name as she came, he would have her and she would be his. One hand is clenched, wrapped, in the bedsheets, head pressed against his pillow and his hips buck as he spills his seed into his hand.

He sighs, rising to find a towel, suddenly ashamed. He shouldn’t be lusting after a witch, let alone Hawke. She allowed herself to be possessed. She commanded a fierce, brutal type of magic. She had an ocean in her eyes, freckles like stars, a touch like fire and he knows her cunt would be _tight_ and… He falls back into the bed groaning, pressing his pillow to his face, willing himself to suffocate and die.

* * *

 

Hawke frowns, pressing her hand up against the cracked glass of Merrill’s mirror. Her room is overgrown, covered in green, plants and flowers covering every inch. The mirror suits her, warped and wooden, branches growing from it. They swirl around the bottom of it, the cracks in the branches being filled by gold. It is an eerie and unnervingly cold thing. It is a void that Hawke is touching, pressing and seeking, looking for sounds of life.

Varric has cleared a spot on Merrill’s desk to lean against, a folder in his hands. He’s flipping through it while speaking absentmindedly, grinning at Hawke. “I couldn’t believe it either. So I asked him ‘how do you know that he doesn’t know that you know that he knows that you know, you know?’ Looked at me like I just shit out a brick of gold.” The frown on Hawke’s face cracks and breaks and she throws back her head in laughter.

“Maker Varric, you make it difficult to concentrate,” she says, smiling and shaking her head. Varric looks pleased that he’s been able to make Hawke laugh, the grin on his face growing wider. Merrill is the only one who does not join them in their laughter, instead she settles for pacing around her room, biting at the broken skin around her fingers.

Hawke is listening to the noise of the mirror, like wind in winter, a swirling sickness. _You’re slipping_ , the demon whispers in her ear. _You promised you would never use this much magic again_ , it laughs at her. _Look at how close I am. Soon, Hawke, I will have you_. The wind is drowned out by cruel and triumphant laughter and her hand snaps away from the mirror. “I’m sorry Merrill,” Hawke sighs, “it’s the same as before. I hear the music, but it’s distant still. I don’t know how to draw it closer.”

“By the Dread Wolf!” Merrill cries, pausing in her pacing. She frets beside Hawke, running her hands over the wood of the mirror. There is no reflection in the glass. This broken thing shows only blackness, a whirling infinite, a hole to drown in. A shiver runs up Hawke’s spine and she steps even further away from the thing. “I’ll need to – I’ll need to…” Merrill’s muttering runs down into mumbling, discussing the planned reparations of the mirror with herself.

She turns to Varric, hugging her arms to herself, and he flips through his folder. Finding what he is looking for, he draws a grey and grainy photograph and passes it to her. “This is him. The Magistrate’s son. Suspected witch, suspected murderer, confirmed madman. My sources have found where he’s hiding,” Varric tells her. The boy in the photograph is sitting without a smile, dressed in a stiff and finely tailored suit. He looks calm, plain, and not at all like the killer plaguing the city.

“If he was a witch, I’ve no doubt Vanard would have gone to Orsino, rather than let Meredith anywhere close enough to sink her teeth into the boy,” Hawke says as she flips the photograph back to Varric. He tucks it neatly back into his folder and shrugs.

“I’ve passed on what I know to the guard. Anonymously of course. I’ve a running bet with the Siren that Aveline’ll be here in the hour to speak to you. Drag you with her, find out if he is actually a witch before handing him to the Templars,” Varric says.

“If he’s not a witch, then the guard will take him. Vanard will not be pleased. What a mess,” Hawke sighs. Varric’s grin mouth hardens into a straight line.

“He’s been killing Isabela’s girls. She’ll want to come with you on this one.”

“Even more of a mess. I’m to play mediator between Isabela and Aveline? Not exactly my idea of a fun afternoon, Varric. Maker,” Hawke complains, rubbing her brow with one hand, the other on her waist. Varric gives her an apologetic smile as he crosses his arms. Fenris chooses this moment to exit his own room, passing by Merrill’s briefly as he heads for the stairs. Varric is immediately on his feet and at the doorframe.

“Hey Broody!” Hawke can hear Fenris’s gravely sigh as he pauses in his steps to turn to Varric. Her face heats as she thinks of the night before, and her pulse drops to a place she’d rather it not be. She turns to face the mirror, willing cold back into her bones.

“Why do you insist on calling me that?” Fenris asks, standing beside Varric in Merrill’s doorway. He casts a cursory glance around the room, frowning at all of Merrill’s clutter. He sees the mirror, that evil thing, Merrill kneeling down beside it, and his eyes settle on Hawke’s back. She’s wearing a high collared dress, hiding the mark he left on her neck the night before. He studies the way her shoulders shift as she adjusts her posture, the way she moves as she makes a half turn, their eyes meeting. His gaze flicks to Varric immediately.

“How would you like to help Hawke keep her sanity?” Varric asks, grinning up at Fenris. His eyebrows raise and out of the corner of his eye he can see Hawke face them fully. She’s got one arm crossed, an elbow resting in her palm, and she’s playing with the necklace at her throat. Her hair is pinned back neatly, as always, but there is one stray piece that has fallen and is curling near her the side of her face. He represses the urge to go to her and tuck it behind her ear.

“How would I accomplish that?” Fenris asks.

“Simple really. All you’d need to do is open some of your buttons, show a little chest, and that’d keep Isabela nice and distracted.”

“Mhmm, yes it would,” right on cue, Isabela is standing in Merrill’s doorway, leaning against the frame, a wink in her eye and a smile on her lips. She licks them at Varric’s suggestion, biting her bottom lip seductively. Aveline is standing behind her, rolling her eyes. She makes a distinct and disgusted ugh noise, before pushing past the siren. From behind the mirror, Merrill’s eyes peak and she titters a small hello.

“Good to see you Aveline. Although, you know Bodahn hates it when you barge in here and he can’t announce you,” Hawke says with a smile.

“He’ll find it in the goodness of his heart to forgive me,” she rumbles. “I’ve come to ask a favor Hawke.” Behind the guard-Captain, Hawke watches as Isabela fishes five gold coins from five different pockets, passing them all to Varric. He mocks raising a glass to her before putting them in his own pockets. Hawke forces back her laughter and focuses her attention on Aveline.

Aveline is wearing her soldiers’ stance. Feet spread wide, hands clasped behind her back, straight and authoritative, it is easy to see how she rose through the ranks so quickly. “I’ve received information on a possible witch. I’d like to avoid a scandal and not hand over someone to the Templars if they aren’t a witch. A delicate situation as the one in question is the Magistrate’s son.” Varric and Isabela are grinning over Aveline’s shoulder, while Fenris has his eyes closed as he leans against a wall.

“You don’t say,” Hawke says, trying to hide her smile and failing. Aveline frowns at her, studying her closely, before whirling and looking at the two giggling conspirators.

“Varric,” she says slowly, allowing him to stop laughing and look at her, “you _can_ pass me information directly. Stop it with this anonymous nonsense.”

“Never. I can’t let on how useful I actually am,” Varric says as he takes a mock bow. He passes the folder to Aveline, and she gives it a brief glance, frowning at what she sees.

“It’s been a pleasure ladies, and Broody,” he says, “but I really must be off. I’ll be back later, Hawke, with what we discussed.” He makes the motion of tipping a hat at her, Hawke giving him a nod, before he turns and heads for the door. He stops on the threshold to rap his fingers on the doorframe, smirking and telling them, “have fun.”

“Maker’s breath – I’m assuming you already know he’s found where Kelder’s been hiding. We should go immediately before Kelder realizes and has a chance to flee. Isabela,” Aveline turns to her, her business like tone taking on a softer one, “perhaps you should stay behind. I know why you were waiting for me. I know why you want to come. We need to do this through proper channels, lest it make trouble for all of us.”

“No one kills my girls, Ave. I defend my own,” Isabela huffs, drawing herself up to full height. The two women stare each other down. “They deserve justice,” Isabela says firmly. Aveline relies on her icy glare to force Isabela to back down, but the siren is just as stubborn as she is.

“Oh, well, I won’t be coming with you, I’m much too busy,” Merrill squeaks from behind the mirror, blissfully unaware of the tension in the scene unfolding before her. Hawke steps forward, placing a hand on Aveline’s shoulder, breaking her concentration. Fenris can see Aveline’s shoulders sag before she sighs and gives in.

“Very well, but we do this my way. I’ve a carriage waiting outside. If we’re to do this then let’s get on with it,” Aveline says. Aveline begins to march for the front door, Isabela hot on her heels. Fenris only lifts himself away from the wall when Hawke passes him, to stand by her side. Aveline passes the carriage driver a few silver coins, speaking curt instructions as the others move to sit inside.

Aveline and Isabela spend their time in the carriage staring as they sit across from one another, both their arms crossed. No doubt they’re continuing the argument in their heads, and Hawke only raises her eyebrows at Fenris in exasperation. Kelder has hidden himself in Darktown, the poorest area of Kirkwall. They pass by countless homeless and sick, all shouting and begging, the smog hanging heavy over this area of the city. Darktown is home to multiple factories, all billowing black smoke into the air.

The house Kelder has chosen to hide in is one of the many abandoned ones in Darktown. They’re all crumbling, run-down things, with windows boarded and signs of no entry hanging from the doors. Aveline wastes no time in simply kicking down the door, smashing in the doorknob. The house is run down and darkened, furniture covered in moldy sheets.

Cobwebs hang from the ceiling, and through the sunlight that streams through the cracks in the covered windows, they can see the dust that hangs in the air. It smells of stale air and rotten food, evidence of rats and mice in the tiny footprints in the dirt. The floorboards creak with their every step. “Are you sure this is the right place? It seems like no one’s been here in ages,” Hawke asks in a low tone, as if her voice would shatter the illusion of eerie calm.

The house answers her question before Aveline can. The ceiling shakes with dirt as they hear footsteps, someone moving in the rooms above them. They move for the stairs immediately, Isabela leading the way, a hand on one of her pistols. She takes the stairs by two, the heel of her boots clicking with each hurried step. All they can do is race after her. The upper floor is in no better condition than the one below, flies skittering on the walls, mold peeling the wallpaper down. Only one door is ajar.

Isabela immediately heads to it, slamming it open, her presence being met with a shrill shriek. Aveline dashes over, a hand at the pistol on her belt, but Isabela’s own shout stops her. “Lia!” It’s made of pure relief as Isabela scoops up a small woman into her arms. She’s dirty and clearly frightened, holding on to Isabela with as much strength as she can muster. The moment Isabela puts her back on the ground, she’s examining her.

There’s a bruise on Lia’s face, on her arms, her dress ripped and torn. The more Isabela looks, the more her lips thin, the anger growing with each glance. “You’re safe now Lia. We’ll make sure that monster can’t ever hurt you again,” she says, her voice low with fury. “Do you know where he is?”

“Don’t hurt him!” Isabela looks nonplussed at her reaction, cocking her head and frowning. “Mistress,” Lia says, her hands on Isabela’s arms, “he’s not… he’s got demons in his head. He was going to hurt me but he told me to hide. It’s the demons! He’s not responsible. You have to help him.” Isabela’s face twists with something akin to disgust.

“You’re confused, it’s alright. You just tell me where he is.”

“On the roof. Please mistress, don’t hurt him,” Lia pleads, but Isabela just smiles sadly, smoothing back Lia’s disheveled hair. She licks her thumb and wipes dirt away from Lia’s cheek, avoiding the bruise that’s blossoming there. Aveline is still walking around the upper level, hand on her pistol, slowly opening every door and peeking inside.

“You run home now. Go find Jan,” Isabela says. Fenris and Hawke step out of the doorway so that Lia can run past, giving them one last frightened look. They can hear her fly down the stairs, and the front door slamming behind her. Isabela has her arms crossed, her fingers tapping with deadly fury. The anger plain to see, written in every pore and fiber of Isabela’s being

“He kills my girls. He brainwashes them. Let’s go,” she growls.

“Stairway to the roof is this way,” Aveline says from behind them, pointing down a dark corridor. Hawke knows that Aveline has realized that taking in Kelder through proper channels is impossible now. Isabela would have her way, no matter the cost. All she could do was try and control how it played out now. Isabela is off in the direction Aveline is pointing, to climb the rickety steps, pushing open the door to the roof.

Even here, above the other buildings, the air is heavy and thick, the sky overcast. He is where Lia promised. Kelder is waiting for them, his back to the door, looking out over the city with his hands crossed behind his back. Seagulls squall overhead, ravens and crows, smoke and cloud, and Hawke knows instantly that this is no witch. She feels no magic but her own, and knows that Kelder has been making his own demons.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Kelder says, before turning to face them. Isabela is snarling, ready to advance, but Aveline has a cautionary hand on her arm which holds her back.

“We can’t murder the magistrate’s son. Not even I can protect you from that,” Aveline warns her in a low voice.

“Ah… my father. He’s tried so hard to hide me, hide what I am. I am a witch. Orsino may deny it, but I can hear the demons speaking in my head,” the careful façade Kelder has raised fades as he argues with himself, his arms shaking as he cocks his head, gritting his teeth, as though he could knock the voices loose from his skull.

“Kelder,” Hawke says slowly, “Orsino is right. You’re not a witch. You need help.”

“I am not mad!” Kelder screams. Fenris instantly steps in front of Hawke, shielding her behind him. A madman, a danger to himself and others, he paces around the roof. “The demons, they tell me – those girls, they have no right being so pretty!” His screams are shrill, piercing through the noise of Darktown. His eyes are bloodshot and red, dark circles hanging under his eyes. Hawke feels only pity.

“They needed – they needed to be taught a lesson. The demons told me!” Kelder continues to argue with them and himself, raising a fist and smashing it against his own temples. Isabela has no pity.

“I’ll make it clean,” she says coolly, approaching Kelder. He looks up at her, startled and wide eyed, flinching when she puts her hands upon his shoulders. She forces him to face her. “Kelder,” her voice oozes with something more, voices upon voices, lilting ones and low ones, a melody of sound and noise that buries its way inside of Kelder. “You are mine.” Kelder immediately calms, his arms dropping to his side, a dazed smile on his face. Satisfied, Isabela steps back.

“Walk to the edge of the roof, Kelder.”

“Isabela, wait –” Hawke begins to protest as Kelder obediently walks to the very edge of the roof, then turns to Isabela for more instructions. His back is to empty air and he still has that smile on his face.

“Fall, Kelder,” Isabela says. His eyes meet Isabela’s and he stretches his arms out wide. He falls without a sound. Nothing catches him except the sweet embrace of the cobblestones below. Below the birds and smoke, to the rats and dirt, they hear the sickening crunch of bone and flesh meeting ground. Isabela whistles and smiles, clapping her hands together.

“Well, that takes care of that!” She strolls past the other three, Aveline frowning and rubbing her brow. Hawke goes to her immediately, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry Aveline. I’m sorry it didn’t go the way you hoped,” she says softly.

“It’s alright. Suicide is… manageable. I need to make a report and have guards come collect the body. I’ll be talking with the Magistrate soon. You should be far away from here before people come to see,” Aveline tells her. Hawke gives her a small smile, giving her an affectionate squeeze before turning to leave. Out on the street, Hawke slips her arm into Fenris’s.

“There’s someplace I’d like to visit, before heading home,” she tells him. She presses against him, and his face heats at how close she makes herself to him. Hawke leads him from dirty streets to cleaner ones, to the market district which bustles with life. It is a far cry from Darktown, where others are treated with outright suspicion. As they walk past shop after shop, Fenris peers through the windows to see sparkling jewelry, fine silks and dresses, alcohol and chocolate, luxury after luxury which he has never known until Hawke.

She leads him to a corner building, a large sign hanging from its walls. The Kirkwall Herald. The door chimes when she goes inside, a mousy woman sitting at the desk. “Good afternoon,” Hawke greets warmly, “is he in?”

“Just got back m’lady,” she says, nodding towards one of the offices behind her. Hawke thanks her and then moves to the office. Varric sits behind a typewriter, glasses balanced precariously on his nose. The typewriter is a large and ornate thing, with the word ‘Bianca’ stenciled in flowery writing on the back.

“I was going to find you after supper. I take it that it didn’t go well?” Varric says, peering over his glasses, not ceasing in his typing. Hawke lets go of Fenris’s arm to approach his desk, moving behind it to read over Varric’s shoulder. She hums as she watches him write.

“Not at all,” Hawke says, “but well enough that Isabela won’t be hanged for murder.”

“That’s something, at least. You’ll have to tell me the whole story later, although I’m sure my informants in the guards will let me know what’s in Aveline’s report soon enough.” Hawke chuckles. Fenris is examining the walls of Varric’s office, littered with framed print outs of famous articles, scrambled notes, lines of twine connecting them together.

“You have it? Is it legitimate?” Hawke asks Varric in a low voice. At that, Fenris turns his attention away from the walls and back to them. Varric sighs, stopping his typing, tucking his glasses into the pocket of his vest. He reaches over and opens a drawer, pulling out a neat and ornate envelope.

“It’s legitimate alright. You were definitely invited at the behest of a certain someone. Not _him_. She’s probably doing it without his orders. They say she lost favor with him somehow. What better way to earn it back than your head on a platter?” Varric says as she passes the envelope to Hawke. She holds it tightly, one finger tapping at it as she thinks.

“A trap. One to avoid, I think,” she says.

“An invitation to what. From who,” Fenris asks, narrowing his eyes. She starts slightly, as though she had forgotten he was there. She bites her bottom lip.

“I had hoped the invitation was a mistake. The Viscount’s annual charity ball. Only the most famed, the richest, of Kirkwall’s citizens are invited. We’re invited, Fenris. Specifically you and I. An invitation to die straight from Hadriana,” Hawke says. His hand clenches into a fist.

“We must face her,” he tells her.

“On our terms, not hers.”

“I’m going, with or without you.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Hawke snaps, glowering at him, “she’ll tear you to pieces.”

“Then come with me, Hawke. Make sure that doesn’t happen,” Fenris pleads. Varric has his eyebrows raised, his eyes moving from one to the other. “Please, Hawke.” Varric definitely doesn’t miss the way Hawke’s stance softens, the way she looks at Fenris. The way Fenris is looking at Hawke. _Oh shit. Oh fucking shit_. Varric sighs and rubs his brows. _Because this will surely end well_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)


	9. Devil's Backbone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You killed me,” she says in a voice not her own. “Leto, you murdered me.” Her face twists and she’s suddenly gasping, grabbing at her chest, at her neck. “You tore out my throat.”

She knocks lightly. In fact, it’s barely a knock at all. She opens the door just as carefully. Fenris is hunched over the desk in his room, over a notebook, sunlight streaming through the windows. He’s furiously scribbling away, his brows knitted together in concentration. The strokes of his pencil slow, he sighs, throwing it down on the table and running a hand through his hair as he leans back in the chair. Hawke smiles, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe. “Writing secrets, are we?”

His head whips around to glare at the intruder, and he slams the notebook closed. She chuckles while he keeps his hand pressed on the book, as if she could open it by mere thought. “Hawke. It’s rude to simply enter,” he grunts, beginning to rise. She shakes her head, hand out motioning for him to stay sitting. He relaxes back into the chair, but his hand stays over the book.

“Forgive me, I knocked but – next time I’ll knock louder,” she says to him, moving to lean gently against the desk. “What are you writing?”

“Not writing.”

“Ah! Artistry then.”

“A poor attempt at it,” he says softly. “I am – I am attempting to find something I am good at that isn’t killing.” She’s able to detect it easily now, that subtle coloring in his cheeks. His fingers tap against the leather of the book, a drum of nervousness. He expects she will find him foolish, doing this thing, like all other things he’s attempted to do with his freedom. All he wants is to claim something for himself, something no one else wants for him. All it does is remind him of the chains still binding him.

“A worthy goal,” she says as she smiles at him, putting her hand on his shoulder. The sun is behind her, circling her with a halo of light as Fenris looks up at her, and it would be so easy to reach up, put his hands on her face, pull her close… he clenches his hands into fists. “I’ve brought something for you,” she says, the warmth of her hand leaving him as she pulls something from her pocket.

It dangles between her fingers, metal catching light, and their fingers brush together as he reaches for it. It’s cold in his hands, this rounded locket, and he turns it over and over. On one side, a wolf. On the other, a hawk. At this, he shows a blush that he cannot hide. This is different than all other things she had gotten for him – new clothes, a new gun to replace the one lost in the sewers – those were all for business. This was personal. He’s never received a gift before, and in this, he is lost. He looks up at her, wordless, his mouth opening and closing without a sound, before clenching his jaw together.

“I know it’s not the _manliest_ of things, but it can be easily hidden. It will help protect you, if I can’t be at your side,” she says as she undoes the clasp for him. He bends forward so that she may put it around his neck. It bounces against his chest, and his fingers still play with it, still mystified. “Please keep it with you?”

“I will,” he tells her, and she visibly relaxes and smiles.

“Fenris… it’s my preference not to die tonight, as I assume yours is as well. Is there anything that you could tell me about Hadriana that could help us? I know she – if it’s too difficult to speak of, I understand,” Hawke says, playing with a strand of hair by his face, tucking it behind his ear.

“When I was still a slave, she was a torment. She would ridicule me, deny my meals, and hound my sleep. The power they held over me… I was powerless to respond and she took advantage. That is what she does. She gets under your skin, finds the weak spots, toys with you. She would cripple a foe just by looking at them,” Fenris spits out bitterly.

“We should expect less physical magic and more psychological, understood,” Hawke says softly. “If I could have – If I’d known about you – Fenris, I –”

“I don’t need your pity,” Fenris spits out, turning away from her.

“It’s not pity Fenris. It’s anger. Danarius and Hadriana deserve what’s coming to them. I don’t know who you were before your memories, but I am glad to know you now. You’re a better person than you realize,” she says, busying herself with his collar, taking the locket and slipping it beneath his shirt. Her fingertips brush against skin and he instantly reaches out and grabs her wrist. He stands, leaning over her, her wrist still caught in his grip. His face is close to hers, her free hand reaching for his arm, and the both of them are quiet. He’s frowning, contemplating everything, his breathing coming quickly and heavily.

“If you want something Fenris, all you have to do is reach out and take it,” Hawke whispers. Her hand ghosts up his arm, to his shoulder, to wind into his hair, daring him closer. He thinks of her with a strawberry between her teeth, lips red from the eating, the juice running down her chin, and he wrenches himself away from her. She stays where she is, her hand falling back to her lap. He walks the length of the room before turning back to her, and she doesn’t look angry or frustrated at his indecision. He’s run from her more than once now.

“I should prepare myself for tonight. If you need anything, you know where to find me,” she says as she lifts herself away from his desk, and slips out his room. The door clicks shut behind her. He sits on his bed, feeling the locket beneath his shirt, and lies back, squeezing his eyes closed. He would protect her. Against Hadriana, Templars, Danarius and all other things. Against himself. In Hawke’s room, she stares at the tarot card sitting on her desk, freshly picked. The Lovers stare back at her.

* * *

Hawke’s standing by the fireplace before they leave, her hand on the mantle, staring into the flame. She’s wearing a dress of blacks and reds, tight and beautiful. The shadow of a hawk is emblazoned upon the lace across her chest, beads falling on the top of her arms. The rest of her arms, as always, are bare. Her raven locks are pinned back beautifully, curled and bunched, a white ribbon nesting in the black. Earrings drop and sparkle, she stands taller than usual, no doubt there are heels under her dress, and she makes a striking vision. Fenris halts in his steps when he sees her.

Hawke turns to him, her lips stained red and her eyes lined darkly, and somehow the blue of her eyes seem to stand out even more. He feels inadequate beside her, even as he is dressed as richly as she. He wears a black tailcoat, a vest of dark red, a tie and boots that shine. He matches Hawke, and was clearly made to do so. The locket sits hidden, resting against his skin. The ride to the Viscount’s Keep is done in silence, Hawke’s hands locked together in her lap and her eyes closed, concentrating on what is to come.

The carriage comes to a halt at the Keep, Fenris taking Hawke’s hand and helping her step out. The music booms from the courtyard, nobles and servants milling about, laughing and smiling, unaware of the viper hiding in their midst. Hawke and Fenris stay close to each other, eyes narrowed as they scan the crowd for Hadriana. As they enter the Keep, he feels the familiar touch of her hand on his arm, linking the two of them and keeping them close together.

Couples sweep across the hall, joined in dance, the musicians playing on the upper balconies. It is a synchronized, dazzling sight, the ultimate display of wealth and luxury banded together in one hall. Banners with Kirkwall’s sigil drape from the ceiling beside the diamond chandeliers, illuminating the white walls of the hall and the golden imprints etched into the stone. “Serah Hawke!” The hold she has on Fenris’s arm tightens as she turns to look at the speaker.

She smiles brilliantly. “Lord Orsino, what a pleasure to see you,” she says, giving a small and polite dip of her head. “May I introduce my companion?”

“I am aware of Mr. Domitius. I wish there was more time for pleasantries but I must speak to you urgently,” Orsino says, barely giving Fenris a glance.

“I’m afraid I’m very busy at the moment –”

“The Templars know, Hawke. About you. The witch running the clinic in Darktown. The night-witch in your home. Your wealth and status protect you, protect them, but Meredith is waiting for a reason to arrest all of you. I don’t know what you’re planning, running around the city, but you need to stop,” Orsino says in a fevered whisper. “She’s drawing the noose around all our heads.”

“I don’t see how that’s my fault,” Hawke says in a low voice. Fenris reaches his arm across himself, to rest his hand upon the hand Hawke has on arm. She’s cold, her knuckles white.

“We witches must stand as one now. You must declare your support for me. I can stall them, try to get Grand-Cleric Elthina to replace Meredith… but we must do it together.”

“You think Elthina will listen? Meredith has her ear, now more than ever,” Hawke hisses.

“You’re friends with a priest, aren’t you? Get him to show Elthina the right side.” Orsino’s voice is rising steadily, and they are attracting glances. Fenris glares at all of them, and is sure that Hawke knows exactly what’s happening.

“Enough. We’ll discuss this at a later date. I’m not planning a revolution at a fucking ball,” Hawke says, swiftly turning. Away from him, Fenris can hear her muttering.

“Oh Maker, I just cussed at a lord. A lord who regularly has tea with Templars.” Fenris chuckles, his hand staying on top of hers.

“If he wanted to turn you in, he would have done so already. He said it himself, he needs you on his side,” Fenris says, leaning over to whisper it in her ear. She turns, biting her lip, cheeks pink at his closeness.

“You’re right, of course. We should focus. Sorry, Fenris,” she says, smiling at him. He carefully detaches the hand she has on his arm, as he turns to face her. He still holds it in his, guiding her other hand to his shoulder. His own free hand wraps around her waist and he begins to lead her in dance, mingling in with the rest of the crowd. This dance is different from their first. Here, they only look at each other.

“Hawke, I wished to ask you something.”

“Ask away,” she says. He holds her closer, easy to go unnoticed in the crowd. His hand tightens around hers, hand trembling on her waist. She looks up at him so earnestly, so innocently, it is easy to forget the power that lurks under that porcelain skin. Under those freckles. Under those lips.

“If you are amenable, I would like to –” Hawke suddenly hisses, Fenris flinching, breaking away from each other, as the noise of the party suddenly crashes into silence. The guests are paused in their dance, heads thrown back in laughter, each in mid-step. The musicians have their instruments in hand, mid breath, mid stroke, and the silence echoes. A servant is in the process of spilling a drink, the liquid suspended and glittering in mid-air. Hawke has barely managed to block her magic in time, and she winces under the pressure of Hadriana’s will. Here, away from Templars, she shows the true might of a night-witch.

“I didn’t think you’d actually come! How foolish,” Hadriana says, standing at the top of the steps in the keep, before the throne. She is dressed in a royal purple, layered with lace, wearing a high collar that flares around the back of her neck. A necklace sits on the bare flesh of her chest – a dragon with its wings spread, as coiled and dangerous as its wearer. Hadriana smirks when Fenris snarls, and Hawke winds a hand into his coat to keep herself standing.

“Let’s play, shall we?”

“No thralls, only your magic. Doing this without dearest uncle’s permission? Naughty girl,” Hawke says in a threatening tone. Hadriana only laughs. Fenris and Hawke begin to weave their way through frozen guests, Fenris practically dragging Hawke behind him. Hadriana turns on her heel, disappearing into a doorway behind the throne, slamming it closed behind her. Hawke yelps when the hall suddenly snaps back to life. She pants, the weight of the magic no longer on her shoulders, and her steps are hurried as she struggles to match Fenris’s strides.

“Wait!” Hawke snaps, dragging Fenris back, even as he has his hand on the doorknob. He whirls at her, furious for a moment, incredulous that she would stop him from seeking his vengeance. “You cannot rush this! Who knows what traps she’s laid to take you back to Danarius,” Hawke says, removing his hand from the doorknob. “We do this together, or not at all.” Fenris softens instantly, and Hawke’s hand which was once on his coat, is now held tightly in his.

“Together then.” It is her hand which finds the doorknob and twists it open. They race past servant and guard alike, hurrying through the corridors to find Hadriana. Hawke is able to follow the stench of her magic, telling Fenris left or right, and which door to take. They exit out a side door of the Keep, and they are soon running down the streets of Hightown. Close to the Keep, close to Hawke’s estate, there is an abandoned mansion. It is here that Hawke takes them.

The windows are dark and walls overgrown with vines and weeds. They walk up the cracked steps together, to the only door that isn’t boarded. The floorboards beneath their feet creak with the sudden weight, dust billowing upwards with each step. Hawke is reminded of Kelder’s hide away. The same lack of care, the same eerie feeling, but a much larger battlefield. They hear laughter boom in every corner of the house. It’s as though Hadriana is right beside them, speaking in their ear.

“I sought a way to bind the wolf to him. It failed, but it made you so pretty. Presenting your heads to him will earn me his favor,” Hadriana’s voice tells them.

“Where is she?” Fenris asks. Hawke shakes her head.

“I feel magic everywhere,” Hawke says. The old fashioned way then. Hawke’s heels click against the wood, and she presses her hands against anything she can touch, trying to find the right path. The path that doesn’t lead them into a trap. They search the main floor, and find only dust and silence. When they ascend the steps to the second floor, the dust suddenly comes alive around them.

“Shades!” Hawke warns, as Fenris draws the hidden blade from his sleeve. “They are bound to an object, in the center of their chests.” Wretched creatures of dust and dirt, they are shadows of darkness, one glowing orb on what could be considered their faces. When Fenris strikes at them, his blade only creates an emptiness in their forms, ones they quickly repair. To be struck by a shade however, is to see blood drawn.

Hawke is drawing her magic, tearing a shade in two as it approaches, reaching out to grab the object it is bound to. A silver ring, one which crumbles into dust. The shade goes with it, screaming into the void. They work in tandem, Hawke pulling, Fenris cutting, the both of them reaching for the rings the shades are bound to. All the while Hadriana laughs, but it is more focused, more directional.

With each door they open, Hawke fends off some trap, something meant to wound and injure, but not to kill. Hadriana hopes to weaken Fenris. All she is doing is weakening Hawke. Fenris marches forward, unaware of the magic he is being kept safe from. Each room is dusted and bare, finding rotting furniture in a style long past, free from blood stains and it is clear this is not one of Danarius’s usual hiding spots. This is something Hadriana constructed for them specifically.

At the final room, Hawke still has her hand in Fenris’s, while the other is clapped over her darkening eye. _I’m so close. Let me in Hawke._ Fenris boots open the door, the two of them rushing in together, and all at once, white light engulfs them. Behind him, Hawke cries out, but as the light fades and Fenris feels nothing, he’s confident that the trap has failed. Before him, standing on the balcony of the master bedroom, is Hadriana.

Blade in hand, he begins to move forward, but Hawke has her grip on him and she is a stone that cannot be moved. She is hunched over, shaking, gasping for breath. “Hawke?” He half turns to her, not willing to put his back to Hadriana who has a smirk on her face.

“A gift,” Hadriana says, “for you, wolf.” When Hawke looks up, her hand away from her face, her eyes are _green_. She holds onto his hand with an iron grip, her other hand reaching to grasp at his coat.

“You killed me,” she says in a voice not her own. “Leto, you murdered _me_.” Her face twists and she’s suddenly gasping, grabbing at her chest, at her neck. “You tore out my throat,” she rasps and wheezes and Fenris’s eyes widen with horror. _The red-haired woman_. Hadriana is laughing as she approaches, putting an arm over Hawke’s shoulders as she smiles at him.

“You remember her right? Varania, your _sister_ ,” Hadriana says and Fenris instantly recoils, away from them. “All it took was one word from Danarius and you murdered your only family.” Hawke cries out and hunches over, hands at her head.

“Get out of my head you fucking bitches!” She yells and the floorboards around her begin to crack. Hadriana snaps away from her, as if touched by burning fire, and the rain begins to pour outside. Lightning snaps overhead and Hawke is still yelling, beating at her temples. Her yells mix with the boom of thunder, and when she looks up again, her left eye is blue and her right black.

“You stupid cunt,” Hawke snarls at Hadriana, drawing herself up to full height. “You think yourself so powerful? So clever? You are a child playing with tools you do not fully understand.” The floorboards continue to creak under the strain of Hawke’s magic, and Hadriana is stepping back and back, away from her.

“If you accepted your demon, you would see that we are better than all the others! You could join us, stand at our side!” Hadriana says, gathering her own magic. She plants her feet and stands her ground, and the two women stare each other down. Their magic is formless, invisible, the only evidence being the tension in the air, the breaking of wood, the swirling of dust.

“Without a demon you are weaker than I!” Hadriana yells, and to prove her point Hawke is pushed backwards, her steps fumbling. She gathers herself, looking at Hadriana, dark and furious.

“Maybe,” Hawke says, “but I have one thing you don’t.”

“Oh?” Hadriana laughs, “and what’s that?”

“Him.” Hadriana whirls in time to look Fenris in the eye as he plunges his blade into her heart. All magic in the room ceases and fades into nothingness, Hawke gasping for breath, a hand on her chest. She shakes her head, shakes everything rattling around in her mind loose, and her eye returns to a vibrant blue. Hadriana is wheezing, the blood bubbling at her lips. She makes no noise when Fenris withdraws his blade. Hadriana crumbles in a heap to the floor. The room illuminates with more light, more lightning, and Fenris and Hawke look at each other, separated by dust and blood.

“It’s not your fault, Fenris. Varania knew that. The fault lies with Danarius and only Danarius,” Hawke says softly as Fenris drops the blade down beside Hadriana’s body. The blood flows like water, and he steps away from it.

“You don’t – you don’t know anything about it. I thought that if I were free of them I could find what pieces of my life I had before. But no, that’s gone because I killed it. Me, Hawke!” Fenris says, shaking his head, his hands shaking as well as he sharply paces. “I need – I need to get out of here.” He barges past Hawke, his footsteps heavy on the floorboards, pounding down the stairs. Hawke turns heel and takes off after him.

The door bangs open, into the dark night, into the pouring wet, coming down without mercy. He takes off into the streets, aimless and directionless, simply needing to be away. Hawke has her skirts lifted but in heels, she cannot go as fast as he can. “Fenris – stop running!” Hawke shouts at his back, yelling over the cacophony of rain, the falling torrents, the light that splits the sky with a brilliant crack. Fenris stops and turns to face her. She’s breathing heavily from chasing after him, absolutely soaked to the bone.

“You don’t understand,” he shouts back, spreading his arms.

“Then help me!”

“They still bind me – this hate of them – it follows me, they planted it in me – I can’t,” he shakes his head, his hands raised in frustration. He’s cold, as he’s sure Hawke is cold as well, the water dripping from him. Whenever the lightning strikes, she lights up, and he can see the worry, the _care_ , she has for him. She has her arms wrapped around herself, hugging skin that’s covered in gooseflesh. Her brows knit as she pleads with him.

“You are a free man, your own man. If you want to destroy the chains that linger, let me help. Stop pushing people away Fenris. Stop pushing me away!” she says, the rain dripping down her face, her neck, onto that now hanging dress of hers. He pushes hair away from his eyes, and for a moment, he doesn’t even hear the rain. There is only silence, and only Hawke.

“You told me that if I wanted something, I should take it. You still think this?”

“Yes!” He closes the distance between them, racing towards her, holding her face in his hands. Her cheeks are wet and cool, hair slick with water, eyes wide and lips parted. The lightning snaps and the thunder is on their lips, a storm in their embrace. A hand makes its way to the back of her neck, holding her close as he devours her mouth.

He’s struck by how warm she is, her hunger for him matching his for her. Their lips slide over each other, and he captures her bottom lip between his, savoring the taste of her. Her hands slowly move, wrapping around his neck, a hand winding in his hair. He doubts anyone has been this close to him before. He’s never held anyone before. He can feel the heat from her core washing over him, wrapping him up, and there’s fire in her touch.

Their noses bump together as they twist, their hands scrambling for each other, and he wants – _needs_ – to be closer. His arms wrap around her waist as he lifts her, her feet leaving the ground, and her hands are on his shoulder, his face. They give each other kiss after kiss as he holds her tightly, keeping her level, and when they pull apart he can see her lips red and raw. Her forehead presses against his, and he thinks she is lovelier than all the stars in the sky.

“I am yours… if you would have me,” Fenris says, his voice hoarse.

“Yes,” Hawke whispers, “yes, I would have you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)


	10. The Carousel

They practically fall through the doorway, closing it behind them, leaving the rain outside. He has his back against the door as he kisses her, the water dripping down and puddling beneath them. They’re an outright mess, but she’s perfect and he cannot get enough of her. Each kiss is sure to lead to one more, and one more after that and after that and after that. Hawke’s skin is still cold but warming quickly as he touches her cheeks and guides her back towards the stairs. They take each step carefully and haltingly, the back of her heel finding each step before she takes it.

Fenris pulls her down at the landing, breathless, her cheeks red as she looks at him. Her lips are parted, a smile at the edges, and he kneels on the steps below her, between her legs. Her skirts are stuck to her, and as he runs a hand from her ankle to thigh, she bites her bottom lip. He finds bare skin, pushing her skirts to her waist, and her smallclothes are wet from more than just water. She dips back, her palms pressed against the wood, and her legs spread even more for him instinctively.

He pulls at her drawers, slipping them off one leg and then the other, gripping them tightly in his hand, and he salivates at the sight of her. His other hand grips her ankle as he moves forward, kissing the freckles on her leg, nipping at her inner thighs. She rocks as he does, her eyes fluttering, suppressing a groan as he sucks and bites at her, leaving marks on his territory. She’s well aware of Merrill sleeping in the rooms nearby, Bodahn elsewhere in the house.

He moves even closer, hot breath running over sensitive flesh, and she gasps lightly at the sensation. He hovers over those lips of hers, savoring the sight of her need. Her hips move slightly, a silent plea, and he is happy to concede. He was right – she does taste better than strawberries. She smells good, musky and primal, and his cock is pressing painfully against the confines of his trousers. He sucks at her clit, making her hand flutter down until it finds his head, knotting her hand in his hair and pressing him even closer.

He runs his tongue down every bit of her, lapping at the sweetness he finds, splitting her folds and teasing at her entrance. She moans at that, the gentle pressure, and her grip on him tightens. Her leg shakes when he draws his attention back to her clit, and runs a finger down her cunt. He presses his finger against her, uncurling it inside of her, and she makes a stuttering gasp, her hips rising briefly from the landing. He presses that finger in and out in a steady rhythm, while he eats at her with the ferocity of a predator devouring his kill. He thinks he has never tasted better, and she is an endless feast for him.

“Fenris,” she breathes, “I need –”

“Yes,” he answers, needing as well, and he rises away from her. He cleans the wet from his mouth with a swipe of his arm. He’s still holding her drawers, balled up in his fist. He helps her rise, picking her up in his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist. Her arms are around his shoulders and she can taste herself on his tongue. They fumble with the door to her room, finally able to close it behind them, and he instantly braces her against the wall as their kisses grow fiercer, hungrier.

Her drawers fall to the floor as he holds her tightly. He’s gripping her ass, her thigh, weight heavy against his cock, her legs still wrapped around him. “Your hair,” he says, “let it down.” She does as he asks, hands working quickly at the ribbon, raven hair falling over her shoulders, still damp from the rain. He growls in appreciation, his teeth at her earlobe.

She’s moved her hands to his tie, his shirt, pulling it open. She runs her hands over bare skin, fingertips atop markings, and he growls into her mouth. He hoists her bodily to take a hand to her breast, pressing at her over her dress. “Rip it, rip it,” she groans, and he obeys her wholeheartedly. Beads bounce on the floor as he tears stitching away, shreds lace, until she is in naught but her corset. They slide down the wall together, her hands at his trousers, and he groans when she frees him.

She takes his cock in hand, her thumb passing over the head of him, finding a bead of pre-cum there and smearing it down the underside of his shaft. His tongue presses into her mouth even harder, lifting her slightly, her heels scraping against the floor behind him as he positions himself under her. Her hands squeeze at his shoulders, her mouth opening and head tilting back as he lowers her onto his cock. Her heels continue to tap against the floor, a hand slapping against the wall, moaning as Fenris thrusts inside her cunt. His hips jet against her, her back against the coolness of the wall, and she feels achingly full.

He holds tight to her ass and to her hip, bruising into her flesh, skin slapping against skin as he buries himself in her heat. It’s better than he ever imagined – all those nights spent thinking of her as he stroked himself to completion. She’s tight, clenching around him, moaning with every thrust. The lightning strikes and he can see every freckle, the water still on her skin making it shine. He is weak to her kiss, finding her mouth with his, their tongues fighting for dominance. He buries his head into the crook of her neck, listening to her gasp, feeling her hand in his hair.

“Fenris,” she groans, and he growls at her call. She’s holding him so tightly, her hands shaking, and her moans sweet. He doesn’t hear the thunder, nor the rain beating at the windows. Too focused on the heartbeat quickening under her skin, her tongue at his earlobe, her hands slipping inside his shirt and fingernails digging into his back. She comes softly, quietly, her legs shaking and her cunt clenching in waves around him.

“H-Hawke.” She’s so warm, so tight, so perfect, and he grunts as he buries himself deep, spilling his seed inside of her. His arms move from holding her up to simply holding her, wrapping his arms around her waist as they breathe together. Her hand is still in his hair, stroking his head as he slowly comes back to himself.

He lifts her with him as he rises, carrying her to the bed. He sits her at the very edge of it, then goes to his knees. He deftly unties the laces of her shoes, placing them one by one beside him. He undoes the clasps of her garters, gently rolling down her stockings. He folds them, placing them beside her shoes. She’s got hands wound in the bedsheets while he has his hands on her corset, pulling it loose and shucking it to the floor. He is right on two counts. Her breasts are perfect, freckles dotting them like stars.

He stands, and it is an easy thing to let his shirt fall from his shoulders, trousers to the floor, and he kicks off his shoes as he joins her in bed. She opens the covers for him, and she smiles as he settles. Her bed is warm and comfortable, and so is she. He extends his arm and she is happy to take his invitation, her hand fluttering over his chest, the locket, as she moves herself close to him. One of her legs drapes over his, and her fingers are still tracing his markings. Her hand travels upwards, stopping over a puckered scar on his chest. She looks at him questioningly.

“Bullet. One on my arm and hip as well. Job went sour, and they were expecting me,” he tells her, “they knew what I was. They brought silver bullets.” She frowns and presses her lips to the scar, her hair brushing against his chest. He runs his fingers through it, tucking it behind her ear. Lightning flashes and she smiles, lighting up like a sun all her own. His touch travels down her face, her neck, over her shoulders, to a scar on her upper arm. Not a complete scar, instead it is three dots in a line.

“Silly thing, that. A childhood argument. Bet that Carver wouldn’t be able to properly throw a knife. He wanted to prove that he could but a knife was too dangerous. We used a fork instead. He could throw it alright. Got me instead of the wall,” Hawke says. The thunder follows at the end of her sentence, and she drops her chin to his chest, her body warm and pressed against him as she looks at him. She traces his jawline, thumb moving against his cheekbone.

“Any more scars of note?” She asks as she smiles, brushing hair away from his face. He chuckles and tells her no, but she only grins and moves to straddle him. She pins his wrists beneath her hands, held tightly by his head. She leans over him, her breasts brushing against his chest, her hair falling like a dark shroud around them. He can’t help but look down, at those pink nipples, and when he looks back at her face, she’s red, her lips parted.

The hold she has on his wrists loosen, and he sits up, an arm around her waist. The other is against the bed, keeping him upright. She’s kneeling, her toes digging into the bedsheets, her hands on his shoulders. He kisses her chest gently, in that center valley, before moving to a breast and suckling on a pebbled nipple. She groans at that, her fingers digging into his skin. His hand travels up and down her spine, rubbing at her back, and she pulls away with a smile when she feels his cock rubbing against her ass. “Again?”

“You are - it has been… a long time,” he confesses. He looks away from her, a flush on his face, but she only laughs softly and turns his face back to her with a touch. She moves forward, lips on his, pulling him into a deep kiss. Her hand travels down, wrapping around his stiffened cock, pumping at his erection.

“For me as well,” she breathes. She adjusts herself over him, her head on his shoulder as she rubs the head of him against her entrance. She is slick with her wet and his cum, and she gives a few stuttering breaths as she lowers herself on top of him. He has never had such benevolent, such generous love before. Each time before Hawke… all that he can remember is rough hands, rougher sex, and the shame that came after. But with this, he finds his rhythm within her, guided by her movements and he knows that he is lost.

She is as lost as he, closing her eyes as she moves up and down, Fenris kissing her neck, her breasts, and a hand on her hip that encourages movement. She shudders when she feels the magic bubbling under skin. His hips rise to meet hers, bucking into her forcefully, and that’s all it takes to break the dam. It is a wild, unfocused thing and Hawke cries out and clings to Fenris as it bleeds through her. It travels around the room, breaking light bulbs as it goes, and the lightning seems brighter and thunder louder.

Most of all, it crashes like waves into Fenris, and draws out the wolf lurking beneath. He gasps when he feels it, lost in this half transformation, his yellow eyes glowing in the dark. He bites down at her shoulder, and she yelps as his fangs pierce skin. “Darling, really, him? The wolf? We can do so much better than that,” the demon says, sitting on the bed behind them, wearing Fenris’s face. She whimpers and squeezes her eyes closed, winding her hand into Fenris’s hair.

He pulls his mouth away from her, blood dripping down his chin, shaking as he holds her, claws biting into skin. Magic seeps inside of him, filling every pore and wrapping itself around every bone. It leeches into his brain and seeks out his memories and for a moment, he is whole. Whatever her magic is doing, it unlocks the doors to his childhood, his family, Varania, growing up, and the ritual… and then it is gone. Hawke is gasping, giving a keening cry as she struggles to lock her magic away. Fenris groans, shudders and spends himself inside of Hawke, heaving at this fresh loss of his memories.

She’s breathing hard, the blood dribbling from her shoulder, and it is enough for her to remain in his arms, to be held. Not so for a reeling Fenris. He takes her and flips her onto the bed, pinning her beneath him, her wrists tight in his grip. Beside her, it is laughing. “Oh no, you’ve upset him,” it says, sliding down to look at her, propped up on an elbow. Hawke looks at Fenris, trying to ignore the mockery beside her.

“What did you do?” Fenris demands an answer, his snowy locks falling around him like a halo. The locket hangs from around his neck, cool metal on her skin. She watches as he gains some semblance of control over himself, becoming the man again, but blood still lingers on his chin. Hawke begins to stammer out apologies, but he growls and shakes his head. “ _Fenhedis_ ,” he curses as he tears himself away from her and the bed, beginning to collect his clothes from around the room.

“Fenris, wait, tell me what’s going on,” Hawke pleads with him as she sits up, wrapping a blanket around herself. The demon sits behind her, its hands on her shoulders, and it whispers into her ear.

“I told you this would happen. I warned you from the first moment. No one you love ever stays. Except for me,” it says, running its tongue from her jaw to her temple. She bolts upright, standing, and she holds the blanket to her breast as Fenris shakes his head.

“I remembered everything. All that I was before the ritual stole it away from me. Your magic did something. Then took it away,” Fenris says as he buttons his trousers. “I cannot do this.”

“Foolish girl, he’s gotten what he’s wanted from you and now he’s leaving you,” it stands beside her, whispering in her hair, winding a lock of hair around its fingers.

“Everything? Your life before? That’s good isn’t it? I can help you,” her voice breaks slightly and when he looks at her, he winces. He sees the marks he has left upon her body and scolds himself for his indiscretion. He knew better than this. He knew better than to get entangled with a witch. But this was Hawke and Hawke made him kinder. All he felt in this moment was cruel.

“You have no idea how… How it was to know all I had, all I was. Then to have it snatched away. To lose it all over again. I am a fool,” he curses as he buttons up his shirt. “I can’t stay here. This is… too much.” He’s shaking his head, clenching his jaw, and he seems unable to look her in the eye. He fears that if he does, he’ll lose his nerve and race back into her arms, _begging_ her to give back all that has been taken from him. Begging her to love him still. Better to hate.

“What? Where will you go?” Her heart is pounding wildly, the demon laughing softly beside her as it strokes her arm.

“I will move my things to the Hanged Man. If you have need of me in the future, you can find me there,” he says stiffly, fully dressed and staring at the floor.

“Fenris, wait, please, I can help you, you don’t need to leave, please,” Hawke pleads with him, even as he has his hand on the doorknob. She knows that if he leaves her, alone with it, she will lose. Lose more than Fenris. He looks back at her, and for a moment she thinks she has convinced him. His shoulders are slumped, his brow furrowed, and he pauses long enough to sigh.

“I will stay, I will stay with you always. Thee and me, forever happy be. Let him go and dance with me Hawke!” It’s wrapping its arms around her, resting its head on her injured shoulder, nuzzling into her with the fondness of a dear lover.

“All I wanted was to be happy… just for a little while. I am sorry Hawke. Forgive me.” He leaves her standing there, naked but for the sheet, the shattered glass of the light bulbs scattered about the room.

“Fenris, please, don’t leave me!” The door clicks shut behind him. She stumbles in her stance, legs weak and shaking, and she falls to her knees.

“Oh good,” the demon says from behind her, “I thought he’d never leave.” She feels a touch in her hair, on her head, a caress. She cannot stand the sight of it - the poor imitation of Fenris whose eyes are filled with darkness. “I’ll never abandon you. You are mine,” the demon croons.

Hawke looks up at the demon, lips parted, and she hisses, “No.” It laughs at her defiance.

“You’re too weak to deny me my prize. Think of all the magic you’ve used! A golden thread that pulled me ever closer and now I am here. For you, to keep you safe,” it says as it kneels down beside her, lovingly stroking her cheek.

“You are here to claim me, to erase me,” she says, beating a fist against the floor.

“Lock you away in a gilded cage to protect you. I love you, dearest Marian. I am the only one who does,” it says, keeping a hand on her jaw, forcing her to look at it. She stares into this mockery, this puppet, this void that wears Fenris’s face and despairs.

“That’s not – you’re not –”

“It’s true and you know it, don’t you? You’re not good enough Hawke. You weren’t good enough for your father, for Bethany, for Carver and for your mother.” She’s shaking her head back and forth, trying to deny, but the demon only presses on. “You’re not good enough for Fenris. Why, he couldn’t wait to be rid of you. He used you, defiled you, and now he’s gone.”

“No, it’s not his fault it’s – leave me be!” She yells, clapping her hands over her ears, bending over with her forehead touching the floor. The demon snarls and reaches out, knocking her over, straddling her as it pins her arms above her head.

“You are mine,” it says as it lowers its face, black slime dripping from its mouth into hers as it kisses her. She writhes and convulses as it fights its way inside of her. Her feet beat against the floor, kicking wildly as she gasps. Her back arches, eyes and mouth wide and horrified, both eyes filling with darkness. She remains still on the floor as the rain continues to beat down, and stays there all through the storm. The sun rises before she moves again, her hand flexing into a fist. A cruel smile appears and the darkness in her eyes fades to nothingness. She is blue, as always, and she laughs as she stretches.

She runs her hands down her body, over dried blood and breast, licking her lips with her tongue. She rises with uncertainty, and takes shaking steps like a toddler. The more she walks, the more confident she grows, and she laughs as she stretches her hands towards the ceiling. She stands in front of the mirror and picks at the scabs on her shoulder, fresh blood escaping from the wounds. She dips a finger in and licks it, smiling at the taste.

Hawke hugs her arms to herself and laughs still, before humming a happy tune and seeking out her nightgown. Blood seeps into white, and she presses her hand against the wound to make more appear. Her face is close against the mirror, her nose almost touching it, hands pressed against it. Breath creates fog, and she’s smiling again. She turns when she hears the birds outside, rain from the night before still dripping from the roof. She kicks the neatly placed shoes by her bed, then bolts out the door.

* * *

When Fenris leaves in the morning, Hawke is standing barefoot in the garden, wearing only her nightgown. She has not bothered to get dressed, to do her hair, and as he passes by the windows, her eyes follow him. He knows she is watching, but he does not have the courage to go to her. There is blood on the shoulder of her nightgown, where he had left his mark. He reaches the door, and he thinks he can hear her laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)


	11. Unwelcome Guest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danarius adjusts his collar. He stands before Fenris, cold and cruel, a smile curling at his lips. “I’ll never leave her. No matter how she fights. Her magic calls to me. I am hers and she is mine. I will always be with her, she and me forever braided be.” Fenris’s blood turns to ice in his veins, panic keeping his heart beating, unable to move from the spot he stands in.

He hunts at night. He sheds the man, the beast emerging from his skin. His blood runs hot, there’s anger in his soul and in his bite. He dreams of only darkness. When he wakes, still warm, restless from the hunt, he does so in a bed of mud, leaves and fur. His hand is in front of him, coated in dry blood, and he clenches it into a fist as he pushes himself up. He rises slowly, grimacing as he feels the familiar ache in his bones. He stands, naked but for the stains of red, his eyes closed, feeling the sun that streams through the trees on his skin. His mouth is acrid with the taste of blood and sinew, his face still sticky with it. Fenris moves slowly, feeling out each limb, re-learning what it was to be human.

It was easier when he could lock himself in Hawke’s cellar. When he could chain himself to the floor. The only casualties then were the scars upon the bricks. He thinks some small part of the wolf must understand. His prey are the thralls, and he tears them to shreds without mercy, his trail that of half-eaten husks. He makes his way to the stream, by what he’s come to know as the wolf’s den. Despite the bitter cold of it, the gooseflesh that erupts, he wades fully into the water. He submerges himself, rubbing desperately at his face. There is more effort in man shedding wolf, the beast’s marks not so easy to hide.

Fenris emerges from the water with a gasp, shivering and shaking, his teeth pressed together to keep them from clicking. He makes his way into the cave, the den, the place where he always wakes. It was more familiar to him before Hawke, when it was necessary. He finds the cache of clothes he had hidden, now musky with the scent of the forest. He beats them out, shaking dirt and bug from them, before dressing himself. These clothes are torn, well-worn, their use evident. His shoes are scuffed, the heel separated from the leather, but it is all familiar to him. A far cry from the things Hawke had given him. Danarius had provided him with finery as well. Had taken his memories too.

Fenris grits his teeth at the thought of Hawke, fury, rage, ire and guilt in his belly, hands shaking as he clenches them back into fists. She too had a beast in her skin. One he had chosen not to see. One he had forgotten to see. How long had it been since that night? Since he left? More than a week, to be sure. The days blurred together, lost in the haze of the hunt and his desire to sleep. Better to sleep than to wake. Waking means seeing Hawke in his mind, her look of betrayal and hurt burned into his thoughts. He finds the locket hanging from a tree nearby, the metal glinting in the sunlight.

His fingers brush over it, turning it from wolf to hawk. He rubs over it fondly, before pulling it down, placing it around his neck. It bounces against his chest as it settles, hidden once again beneath his shirt. He sighs and tells himself he is a coward. Tells himself that his anger is not with her. Her magic, his wolf – both unwelcome passengers in their bodies. He understood that wild nature, control that wavered, the beast that beats wildly at your chest. So why didn’t he stay? The guilt churns again. He flips it instantly to rage – no, no, she was just like all the others, and her touch was torture.

Her touch was fire, warmth incarnate, bleeding from skin into soul and making him whole, making him real, kind and kinder, gentle peace, a place to belong – to suffer under her gaze, under the grip of her magic, another chain he had bound himself to. He scowls, shaking his head as he tries to convince himself that she meant to drive him away. She had taken what she wanted, then burrowed inside his brain, and stole what was most precious. He blames her so that he won’t blame himself, the careless way he claimed her and the cruel way that he had left. He blames her so that it is easier to accept she has not sought him out since, knowing he had broken what bound them.

These quiet moments, left alone to himself, he thinks of her smile. The freckles that dot her face, her shoulders, her body, and the human heat she had shared with him. He thinks of her hair, brushing strands behind her ear, the piercing blue of her eyes as she looks at him. Biting her bottom lip, red, shy and reaching for him. Her taste in his mouth, the salt on her skin, the music in her spine, the tenderness in her kiss and the hunger at the edges. He groans, rubbing his face, telling himself that he doesn’t have the right to miss her. That he shouldn’t miss her. He’s never missed anyone before. There’s never been anyone like Hawke to miss.

The streets of Kirkwall are thick with workers going about their business, paying no mind to another man in the crowd. He scans it warily, his shoulders hunched, trying to make himself small. The hair on the back of his neck rises, and he looks over his shoulder often. He’s slipping into habits he had before Hawke, when he was sure there was an agent of Danarius at every corner. He struggles to take even breaths, sure that enemies were closing in all around him. His hands shake by the time he reaches the Hanged Man, almost gasping with relief when he opens the door.

He feels safer in the small spaces, closed off from the rest of the world. The Hanged Man is dark, dirty, loud and crowded, and filled with drunkards and laughter. A revelry he does not wish to be part of. He moves through the crowd, milling his way through people, until he finally reaches the stairs. They creak with every step he takes, the wood in shambles and covered in scuffs. A far cry from Hawke’s estate. That was a place he couldn’t return to. Not yet.

Fenris feels he needs an invitation to even go near her home. He was sure he was unwelcome, that Hawke’s hurt had turned to hatred, just as his had done. A hatred he justly deserved. He knew she did not deserve his. Despite all of it, he craved her forgiveness, needed to hear the words from her mouth. Something he did not merit. He wants to believe she would understand, but knows he is unworthy of such understanding. _Venhedis_. He curses under his breath as his brows knit together. He had come at her like the beast he was, filled with only bodily want, unable to convey how much she had changed for him. How different the world seemed by her side.

He finds the door to his room already cracked open – the lock broken. His hands clench into fists as he slams open the door, rushing into the room, ready to deal with any intruders. He would have liked intruders better than what he actually finds. Varric is sitting in a chair, bemused as he looks up at Fenris, Isabela behind him and leaning over the chair. The both of them are looking at the notebook open in Varric’s hands. _His_ notebook. “That’s mine,” Fenris growls, stalking forward towards them.

“You know Broody, these are pretty good. You could make some coin with this. You might want to start drawing something other than Hawke, though,” Varric says as he passes the notebook to Isabela. She takes it cheerfully, sauntering away from Fenris as she flicks through the pages. At one, she stops, turning it towards him and taps at a ripped and missing corner.

“What happened to this one? Ooh, was it naughty? I bet it was naughty,” she smirks as Fenris rips the notebook from her hands. He clutches it in his, glowering at them underneath his frown. When he had first started drawing, he drew whatever he could see. Mostly dull objects. Terrible imitations. The scrawling of a child. Such things had turned to Hawke, and only Hawke. The curve of her face. Memorizing every freckle. Trying to capture the sunshine in her smile. The only way he could look at her now.

“What do you want?” Fenris asks, shoving his notebook into one of his coat’s pockets, away from the two of them. Isabela moves behind Varric again, the two of them sharing a worried glance before she places her hands on Varric’s shoulders.

“You know, Fenris, we’re not idiots,” Isabela says softly. “Merrill can’t see it, Aveline doesn’t want to and Anders doesn’t care but you can’t hide it from us. She’s never been this close to anyone before. Something tells me you’ve never been close to anyone like you are to her either.” Varric crosses his arms, nodding at her words.

“I don’t know what happened between you two to make you leave and frankly, I don’t want to know. You just need to go back. You need to see Hawke. We’ve tried everything else,” he says. Fenris’s eyes flick between the two of them, his blood growing cold. That prickling on the back of his neck is back, warning danger, a shiver of unease making its way down his spine. “She won’t talk to anyone. Maybe she’ll talk to you. Find her way out of this mess she’s in.”

“What’s happened?” Fenris asks.

“She’s possessed.” He’s not quite sure who says it, not as the noise rushes to his ears, the air swept from his lungs. He stumbles to the bed, sitting on it, his head in his hands.

“How long?” He asks, his words muffled through his hands.

“We’re guessing since Hadriana. We weren’t entirely sure, at first, only that she was acting strangely. We thought it was because you left,” Varric sighs. “She destroyed her garden. Attacked Aveline. We had to chain her, you know? To keep her from hurting others. Hurting herself.” Varric watches as Fenris doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound. “Daisy – Merrill, sorry – whipped up something with Sebastian’s help. Suppresses her magic. Makes for one cranky demon.” At that he can see Fenris flinch. A subtle movement in his shoulders, his hands pressing against his face just a little bit tighter.

“Merrill thinks that all the magic she’s been using drew it out. That fighting a night-witch was the final nail in the coffin. She says Hawke would’ve had to use a lot more magic to compensate fighting a witch that’s hand in hand with a demon,” Isabela continues. “Not to mention all the crazy shit we went through before that. She never got a break.” Fenris’s hands move to his knees, his knuckles white, as he steadies his breathing. He should have known. Should have realized something was wrong. _Fenris, please, don’t leave me_.

Fenris shoots to his feet, door banging against the wall, his footsteps heavy as he runs down the stairs. He can hear the other two following, racing to catch up with him as he marches from Lowtown to Hightown, to Hawke’s doorstep. He tries to open it, finding it locked, resorting to knocking loudly and insistently. Aveline opens the door with a surprised look on her face, one of her eyes blackened, but he shoulders past her, heading towards the stairs. “Fenris, stop,” Aveline says this with authority, and Fenris immediately freezes mid-step, his hand on the bannister.

Anders emerges from the kitchen with a questioning look, one that fades into understanding when he sees Fenris. Isabela and Varric arrive, breathing heavily from their chase. “The last time she was possessed, she pulled herself out of it. It took her a couple of days. This time, though, it’s been dragging on. We’re hoping your presence might be able to help. We’ve been told how close the two of you are,” Aveline says, while Varric coughs innocently behind her.

“You have her chained,” Fenris says.

“Yes.”

“You have her drugged.”

“Yes.” Fenris’s eyes narrow as he turns his head towards them, marching back down the stairs. They were treating her like a dog. A beast that she wasn’t. Aveline has her arms crossed, in her soldier’s stance, unafraid of the way Fenris stalks towards them.

“Hawke has exorcised demons from others. Why haven’t you done the same for her?” He demands, watching as Anders, Varric and Isabela share a glance from behind Aveline.

“We’ve discussed it,” Anders says slowly. “Hawke is probably the only one who actually knows what she’s doing. She can make a clear path through the maze. You take one wrong turn… more than Hawke is lost. It’s a huge risk. She wouldn’t want us to do it.” Fenris practically flies at the witch, his arm pressing against his throat as he backs him into the wall. Wasn’t she worth the risk?

“She wouldn’t want to be possessed,” Fenris snarls as Anders claws at his arm. Aveline takes him by the shoulders, dragging him back, keeping a hand on his chest as she separates the two men. Anders rubs at his throat, glaring at Fenris.

“Enough!” Aveline hisses, giving him a withering stare. Fenris’s eyes flick from Anders to her, wild and unfocused, before finally calming in his stance. It’s enough for Aveline to cautiously let go of him. “Talk to her, see if you can pull her out of it. If you can’t, then we deal with it. Needless to say, her – _situation_ – doesn’t leave this house. We don’t need the Templars raining down on us too.” Fenris shakes his head, taking the stairs by two, and there’s worry deep in his bones. He stands on the threshold, his hand on the doorknob, and cannot cross it.

He had left her room so carelessly, so violently, it seemed wrong to return to it when it wasn’t really Hawke that waited for him. So he stands, still in the hallway, unable to go forward but unable to leave. He can hear Sebastian’s voice, reading from what he recognizes as the Chant of Light. _You have walked beside me, down the paths where a thousand arrows sought my flesh. You have stood with me when all others have forsaken me._ His stomach churns with guilt once again. He would not forsake her now. He turns the doorknob.

She’s chained to the bed, her wrists shackled to the posts, her arms stretched out beside her. She’s sitting up, forced to by the chains, rocking back and forth, beating her back against the headboard. Her hair is long and free, and she’s wearing an ill-fitting and large shirt, clearly all they could manage to get on her. She’s pulling at the shackles, flexing her hands, wrists reddened with the efforts taken to free herself. Her feet are pushing at the bed, her eyes bloodshot and red, dark circles hanging underneath as though she hasn’t slept in days.

Sebastian looks up when the door opens, as does Hawke. She gasps when she sees him, her face cracking and silent tears stream down her face. “Fenris,” she cries, “help me.” He takes a step forward, a hand outstretched towards her. “They’re hurting me, you have to help me, please,” she begs, bending forward, her arms twisting as she looks at him. He pulls his hand back, stepping backward, clenching his hands into fists. She’s silent when he stops his approach, her head leaning back against the headboard.

“Then can you tell the priest to shut up? He’s annoying,” she says calmly, rolling her head to look at Sebastian, a grin on her face. Sebastian only sighs, closing the book in his hands. He places it on the bedside table, before rising from the chair, smoothing down the front of his robes. He smiles at Fenris, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“The demon will say anything to be free. I trust you’ll know the difference between _it_ , and _her_ ,” Sebastian says, giving his shoulder a squeeze before taking his leave, closing the door behind him. Fenris shrugs off his coat, throwing it onto the chair, before sitting on the bed beside her. Hawke regards him curiously, cocking her head at him. As if putting puzzle pieces together, she smiles, and leans forward.

“Are you here to fuck her, wolf?” She gives him a haughty grin, laughing as he brushes the hair from her face. Her lips are chapped and dry, and her laughter turns to wary regard as he does not reply. Instead, his hand brushes against her cheek, and she stiffens. Her eyes close as his thumb moves in small circles against her cheekbone. She sighs, then leans into his touch.

“I’m sorry you have to see this. When I’m not… feeling well. Are you going to kill me Fenris?” She sighs again. “I’m just as bad as Hadriana now.”

“You are nothing like Hadriana,” he tells her softly. Her eyes open, sad and tired, the demons jittering movements coming to a stop as Hawke looks at Fenris. He takes the glass by her bed, filled with water, raising it to her lips. She drinks it down gratefully, able to dart her tongue over her lips, wetting them. “What can I do?” He asks as he puts the glass back down on the table. Her eyes turn from him, looking downcast, before closing.

“You can leave,” she says. Her eyes flash open, and she snaps her teeth at him. He keeps his hands tight on her cheeks, pressing his forehead against hers. She growls, her feet kneading into the bed, shoulders shifting as she resumes her scattered movements.

“I should not have – Hawke, I am sorry,” he says quietly while she laughs.

“Unhand me pup, and know your betters!” He releases her as she continues to writhe, looking at him as though she means to tear out his throat with her teeth. Her head beats back against the headboard, pulling on the chains, moaning with despair. “If you will not free me, leave me!” She shouts, brimming with fury. Fenris hears a sigh behind him, and turns to see Anders, his arms crossed. Hawke immediately stills, smiling and batting her lashes at him.

“Anders. I apologize – for my actions – I was, ah,” Fenris frowns as Anders sits himself down on the chair, Hawke still smiling warmly at him.

“I know,” Anders says. “I get it. It’s not what you wanted to hear. Exorcism is intensely invasive, especially if you don’t know what you’re doing. If I do this, _you’re_ coming with me.” Fenris looks up, the surprise registering on his face. “She defeated it last time on her own, yes, but she almost killed herself in the process. Maker, she’s going to be so fucking pissed,” he says, rubbing his brows.

“She doesn’t want you to,” Hawke hisses. “So you stay away, you bastards.” Fenris nods at Anders, whose hands begin to glow blue. He moves a hand to her arm, the lightest of touches, but enough to make Hawke scream. “She’ll hate you, she’ll hate you, she hates –”

* * *

He hunts at night. His blood runs hot, anger in his soul and in his bite, the night sky shimmering with stars. He pushes himself up from the ground, that familiar ache in his bones, gasping in pain, his claws scratching against the floor. Drool drips from his fangs, his yellowed eyes searching for anything familiar. Fenris crawls forward on hands and knees, to sit on the broken stairs by Hawke’s front door, leaning on the bannister as he struggles to catch his breath. He has on the clothes he was wearing when he first met Hawke, finding comfort in their familiarity. His hand presses against his chest, feeling the locket and breathes a sigh of relief. His claws and fangs slowly recede, eyes darkening back to their usual green.

His hands grip at the bannister as he blinks back the fog in his vision. There’s green at the edges, a deepening smoke, and a creeping danger that’s heading straight for him. He recognizes Hawke’s front door, her stairs, but that’s all there is to this place. It’s a fractured island, a lone platform floating amongst the stars. He can’t tell if he’s upright, upside down or sideways, his stomach rolling, and he bites back the sickness of disorientation. A street lamp floats past his island, illuminating it, and Fenris pushes himself to his feet.

It’s a dream, all of it – he rubs his eyes and tries to clear his head. What was he doing again? He walks without thought, to the edge of the platform, where rocks break off and drift away into the nothing. He clutches at his head, brows knit in concentration. He was trying to find… something. The fog is in his brain, clouding everything. This wasn’t – this wasn’t right. He was – he was… he was going to find Hawke. He gasps with new life, whirling around looking in every direction. He could see different platforms from what he assumed was above him, rocks floating in the barest semblance of a path.

He reaches for them, pulling himself along, and the rocks shift underneath his weight. With a grunt he pulls himself up to the next platform, arms shaking as he scrambles over it. He rolls over into what he recognizes as a section of Hawke’s garden, blooming with flowers he doesn’t know, under a tree with leaves that glow. Beneath that tree, leaning against the trunk, is Hawke in a white dress, wearing a large hat, reading a book. She turns the pages calmly, as if oblivious to his presence. He moves forward, on his knees before her, knocking the book from her lap and taking her face in his hands.

“Hawke,” he says, and she looks at him with a smile.

“Fenris,” she answers, moving forward, her hands on his shoulders as she pulls him into a hug. “I’ve missed you.” He wraps his arms around her, his head leaning against hers, pressing a kiss to her temple. She holds him tightly, her hands winding into his vest, her chin on his shoulder. “Did you think it would be this easy?” His stomach drops as he pulls her away, his hands on her shoulders as she smiles and her eyes bleed black. The demon laughs at him. “Don’t you know anything? We must play first.”

The demon rises to its feet, its form shifting. Hadriana now stands in Hawke’s place, bouncing a whip in her hands. Fenris scrambles back, rising as well, wishing he had his gun. She cocks her head, smirking as she begins to circle him. He follows her every move, watching her carefully, reminding himself that Hadriana is dead. He put a knife in that bitch’s heart. Hadriana is dead. She cannot hurt him any longer. Hadriana licks her lips with a forked tongue, as though she is drooling at the sight of him. Something to be devoured, taken, a feast ready for the eating.

“I wonder why she chose you,” Hadriana says, “after all, you are a beast broken. Look at how you cower, slave.” Fenris flinches as she moves forward, her hand on his jaw.

“Do you think your being here strengthens her? Or do you hope it weakens her? That’s what you want, isn’t it? Someone to be weak for you – even in spite of you,” Hadriana laughs, scratching her nails across his face as she moves, smirking at him over her shoulder.

“Where is Hawke?” Fenris forces himself to focus, knowing that if he falters, he is lost. The demon knows where to hurt, where to wound, shoving sharp knives into his back. Where was Anders? He would be the one who’d know how to deal with this demon, know what questions to ask. Know how to lead him to Hawke. Void of this guide, Fenris does the best he can. Hadriana stops her pacing, sliding in front of Fenris seamlessly, close enough for their noses to touch.

“Where is Hawke?” She mimics in a high-pitched voice, eyes wide and lips pouting. “Do you even know where you are? What you’ve done? What could happen to you?” She places her hands on his face, the leather of the whip cool against his cheek. “Perhaps I’ll possess you instead.” Fenris recoils, wrenching himself away from her as she laughs. He steps back even further, until his heel finds the edge. Hadriana uncoils the whip, and he watches as it slithers through the grass as she walks towards him.

“You hate this one, this witch, this Hadriana, for her demon and all that she’s done. Do you know what you’re trying to save? What dearest Marian has done?” Hadriana questions him as she moves ever closer, and he flinches as she raises the whip. She pushes him off the edge, away from any path he could follow, and he is at the mercy of this grinning demon. They float through endless space, one of Hadriana’s hands on his chest, the other pointing to a platform in the distance.

“I know all she knows and we know how to keep the angel busy,” Hadriana says. In the distance, he can see people sitting at a table, drinking and laughing, Anders and his wings at the head. He’s holding hands with someone he knows as Karl – full of life, unlike the previous time – while Hawke sits at the opposite end of the table. There’s a drink in her hand, laughing as she leans over to talk to a grey-haired woman. He recognizes Carver, alive and laughing, with a woman that looks like a softer version of Hawke. Isabela and Aveline are talking, Merrill explaining something rapidly to Sebastian while her arms swing with excited energy. Food covers the length of the table, a feast for the ages, music playing softly in the background. With a pang, Fenris realizes this is the whole of Hawke’s family. One he was not a part of. A history he couldn’t share.

His feet find ground while the demon shifts its form once again. Fenris stares at Varania, her throat torn and ruined, blood pouring down the front of her. He recognizes Hawke’s cellar, this scene, Hawke in her nightgown on the floor, holding onto the body of Carver. He lies with his entrails hanging out, eyes blank and lifeless. Hawke whispers _please_ as she makes a deal with the demon. Varania kneels down beside Hawke, wrapping her arm over her shoulder, pulling Hawke into an embrace. Varania coos at her, shushes her, pets her head like a loving mother.

“She had done so well, my little fool, and resisted all I threw at her,” Varania says, pressing a kiss to Hawke’s head. “Then she presented me with the body of her brother and begged for me to bring him back.” Varania rises, her hands outstretched, pulling Hawke up with her. She stands behind Hawke, one hand wrapped around her waist, her chin on her shoulder, her other hand reaching out over Hawke’s. Blood drips from the cut on her palm, hissing as it burns into Carver’s body. Hawke heaves with breath, the corpse doing the same. His eyes are still grey, his body still broken, moaning as it writhes in pain.

“I did what I could, you see, but he came back a horror. Death is not so kind to mortal folk,” Varania says as Hawke leaves her embrace, reaching for the dagger on the ground. She crawls to his body, whispering a thousand apologies, a thousand whispers of love, before she buries the blade in his neck. She kills him twice, and stares at her hands, at the knife, and shakes with mindless grief. She trembles, she gasps, she clenches her jaw and her mouth thins into a determined line.

“I knew then that she would never allow me to stand by her side. Never allow herself to become a night-witch. So I possessed her then as I possess her now,” Varania says, playing with Hawke’s hair. She hums as she combs her fingers through it, collecting it on her back in a neat bundle. Then her hands move to Hawke’s neck, tightening and choking, Hawke wheezing as she struggles to take breath. Her hands claw against the demon, her eyes rolling to the back of her head. Hawke collapses to the ground, almost as lifeless as the corpse beside her. Varania stands over their bodies triumphantly.

“Did she tell you how it was her fault Carver met his doom?” Varania rubs her hands together as she approaches Fenris, looking up at him with eyes than match his own. “She argued terribly with Bethany, her sister, until Bethany fled into the night. Hawke refused to go get her, so Carver went in her stead.” Varania slaps her knee as though she’s telling the funniest joke she’s ever heard.

“The thralls found them both! Their mongrel dog was the only thing that returned to the estate, bloodied and broken, living long enough to take Hawke to Carver. Bethany gone. Enough blood and guts to confirm her death. With her two precious babies gone, dear old mum wasn’t long for this world. Leandra died in her sleep, dead of a broken heart. Hawke wasn’t good enough to convince her to stay.” Varania continues to laugh. “She killed her whole family!”

Varania turns to him, laughter dying abruptly as she snarls. “We had a deal. She promised! She promised me she would stand by my side! She is betrayer, deceiver, traitorous bitch! Her words, her promises, they mean nothing to her. What makes you think she’ll honor the promise she made to you?” Varania pushes him, hands hard against his chest. “You find Danarius and she’s more like to stand by his side than yours. She’d turn you over, pup.”

Fenris is shaking his head, reaching for Varania’s hands, locking her wrists in his grip. “You’d go, wouldn’t you?” Varania whispers, leaning close to him, her lips almost upon his. “You’d go without a fight. Back to your master’s clutches. Remaining in hers.” The laughter is back, shaking herself loose from him, walking away and heading towards the broken stairs. Fenris follows it upwards, around the spiraling staircase of fractured stone, until they reach the next platform.

Hawke is naked, lying in a bed of flowers and long grass, her hand drifting over the green. She’s smiling, humming to herself, a knife in her other hand. She laughs brokenly, clapping her hand over her right eye. “The bitch fought me. The first to do it so fiercely,” Varania tells Fenris as Hawke begins to plunge the blade into her side, blood staining grass red. “She risked death rather than have me! She pushed and tore me to shreds and sent me away,” the demon snarls this out, hunching over, blood blooming on its side.

The Hawke in the grass laughs, then fades into the dust, blowing away into the nothingness and leaving only the echo of her laughter. The demons form shifts and warps, and when it rises, Danarius adjusts his collar. He stands before Fenris, cold and cruel, a smile curling at his lips. “I’ll never leave her. No matter how she fights. Her magic calls to me. I am hers and she is mine. I will always be with her, she and me forever braided be.” Fenris’s blood turns to ice in his veins, panic keeping his heart beating, unable to move from the spot he stands in. “You look at her, and you will always see me.”

The whip has made its reappearance, into Danarius’s hands, and he’s stepping forward towards Fenris. Fenris is stepping back, unable to form a coherent thought, dropping off into the nothingness. Danarius follows him downwards with a grin on his face. They stand in the Viscount’s Keep, and Fenris is wearing his suit. Hawke is in his arms, smiling brightly as they dance amongst the crowd. The music plays loudly, and Fenris smiles back at her as he squeezes the hand in his.

They sweep across the floor, Hawke’s hand on his shoulder, his arm around her waist. The other dancers are melting away, until it is only Hawke and Fenris stepping lightly across the floor. She’s breathless with delight, her cheeks pink, and their steps slow so that she may move closer to him. He holds her tighter as her eyes begin to close, her lips on his. This kiss is sweet, full of promise, and she smiles shyly when they pull apart. _Hawke I wished to ask you something_.

 _Ask away_. She cocks her head, questioning, her hand is still in his.

_If you are amenable, I would like to stay with you. After everything is done. Hawke. I want to be with you._

Danarius stands behind him, whispering in his ear. “She is a demon in her own right. You know what pushed her over the edge this time? You.” She’s still smiling, her cheeks still pink, her hand moving from his shoulder to his face, brushing his cheeks. “Your sin, your brutality.” Blood is blooming on the shoulder of Hawke’s dress, bleeding through the fabric and all it touches. Her smile turns to a frown and she’s reaching upwards, whispering in his other ear.

“This isn’t real, Fenris. It’s time to go,” she says, planting a kiss on his cheek. She moves away from him, crumbling into ash. The demon makes a noise of irritation, before raising his hand, raising the whip, striking Fenris across the back. He hisses at the all-too familiar fiery pain upon his flesh. The Keep turns to dust, to dirt, until it is only Fenris and Danarius. Fenris cowers on the floor, at the feet of his master. Danarius laughs, bringing down the whip once again, cutting Fenris across his shoulder.

“How could you care for her? Something as vile as a witch? How could you stay knowing you condemned her to this?” A chain appears in Danarius’s other hand, and he tugs it forward. Hawke appears, a collar around her neck that’s connected to the chain, and she stands meekly beside Danarius. He circles her, baring his fangs, biting them into her neck. She convulses as he drains her, her eyes growing dull and red, the color fading from her hair. He pulls away, chin wet with blood, while Hawke sways on her feet.

Danarius hauls Fenris to his feet, the whip changing to a sword, which he places in Fenris’s hands. Danarius stands behind him, holding him like a lover, and they grip the sword together. He points it forward, the tip at Hawke’s chest. They step forward, blade piercing flesh, flowers blooming about the wound. White lilies spill from her ribs, petals falling to the ground. Hawke is coughing, her hands at her face, more petals on her lips, dropping from her mouth. They bloom and cover her, until she wears a living dress of lilies.

“Fenris,” she struggles with the words, pulling the petals off her tongue, “you belong to no one.” Fenris’s eyes widen at her words, the fog still behind his eyes but clearing fast, and he snarls as he tugs the blade from her chest. Hawke smiles as she crumbles away. He elbows Danarius in the guts and drives him away.

“I am not a slave,” he snarls, pointing the sword at Danarius, still dripping with petals. Danarius throws back his head in laughter.

“Very good! You’re as stubborn as she is,” he says, grinning wider than humanly possible, all teeth pointed and sharp, a forked tongue behind his lips. Fenris wavers, stuck between attack and run, grimacing as he struggles with moving against trained instincts. Kill his master. He grits his teeth and rushes forward, plunging the blade into Danarius’s belly. His eyes widen, confused, as though he did not expect Fenris to attack. The demon fades, dust as much as Hawke, and the platform crumbles beneath his feet.

He lands on another island, Anders crashing into the ground beside him. He’s heaving with rage, missing one wing, the feathers on the other covered in ash and soot. He’s dripping with sweat, his hair in disarray, breathing heavily as Fenris helps him to his feet. Hawke is on her knees, her arms stretched upwards, her fingers locked with that of the demon. A large, grey-skinned beast of a thing, with giant horns and an ever shifting face. They are struggling, pushing at each other, and they both turn to the intruders, wearing the same scowl. Anders moves first, shouting at Fenris “help her!” before racing towards the demon.

Fenris falls to his knees behind her, his hands slipping down her arms until they’re over her hands, helping her push back against the demon. She leans back into him, using his support to help keep her upright. The demon is spitting with anger and annoyance as Anders distracts it, his spells bouncing off the demon like throwing pebbles at a wall. “You should have stayed away,” Hawke says through gritted teeth.

“I would not leave you to this alone, Hawke,” Fenris says. Hawke chuckles, moving her head back, resting it on his shoulder. She turns her head towards him, looking up at him and closing her eyes for a moment. When she opens them again, she struggles to rise, pushing upwards and getting to her feet, the demon shrinking as she does. She turns to Fenris and smiles sadly.

“You already did,” she says. She pushes at the demon as it screams, Anders’s hands glowing on its shoulders, the two witches pushing it ever downwards. The island is swallowing it up as it contorts, face shifting between Karl, Fenris, Danarius, Bethany, Carver, until it wears Hawke’s own face.

“Begone,” she whispers as she pushes it further into the ground.

“I’ll be back,” it gasps as it disappears under the earth.

* * *

“Unlock these, please,” her words are desperate and Hawke is straining against the shackles. She’s panicked in her movements, legs shifting and pushing at the bed sheets, struggling to catch her breath. Anders unlocks one and she immediately turns to sit on the other side, wrist still locked in place, and pukes over the side of her bed. Anders goes to her side immediately, but she brushes him away. “I’m fine. Key, please.” He does as she asks, placing the key in her trembling palm. Her hand is unsteady, shaking, missing the key hole multiple times. Anders reaches for her again, to help her.

“Leave me alone!” She turns furiously towards him, yelling and pulling against the shackle, “go away!”

“Hawke, if I could -” Anders is moving towards her again, his hands outstretched.

“I said leave me alone,” Hawke doesn’t yell this, but instead her words are incased in steely anger, cold and calm. Her eyes flick to Fenris, standing beside Anders. “The both of you.” Anders sighs, shrugging his shoulders, before turning and leaving, closing the door behind him. Hawke is fiddling with the lock again, finally able to free herself, her hands rubbing her bruised and cut wrists. She moves to rise, but her steps are stumbling and unsure, Fenris moving forward to catch her.

She bats away his hands, “don’t touch me,” she snarls as she reaches for the bedpost. She hunches over, one arm around her waist. “It was your idea, wasn’t it? You don’t – you don’t realize what could have happened to you. You could have been killed, you could have lost your mind, you – you could have become an empty husk!”

“Hawke, I only wanted to…” his words trail into nothing as he shifts on his feet, watching as Hawke rubs her face with her hands.

“No. You didn’t have the right. You invaded my mind. I was dealing with it. And now you know – you know, my family, my –” she stumbles and falls to her knees and Fenris immediately goes to her side. He tucks one arm around her waist, his hand taking hers, helping her to her feet and sitting her onto the bed. She looks up at him, her hand still in his.

“I want you to leave, Fenris,” she says. He wavers, swaying on his feet before his hand slips from hers. He takes his coat, and he leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)


	12. Tooth and Claw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Festis bei umo canavarum,” he complains, whirling away from her, running his hands through his hair.  
> She makes an irritated ugh before, “if we’re going to argue, at least use words I can understand.” Fenris has never been one for words, for discussion. Instead he turns back to her, hands crushing onto her shoulders.

“That is definitely the one we want. An invitation shouldn’t be too hard to acquire, even for myself, without your help,” she says, sitting in the chair by Varric’s desk, the newspaper open in her hands. Varric sits behind the desk, smirking, a hand tapping on his beloved Bianca typewriter.

“Are you sure you want to go to this? It’s only been a week since… well. You’re really going to murder someone at their own party?” Hawke cocks her head, choosing not to reply to that first half. They’d been watching her closely, since she’d rid herself of the demon. Anders in particular had been hovering, keeping a close watch. She’d been itching for some time to be away from their scrutiny.

“It’s only fair. Such a close ally of Danarius, I’m sure he’d relish the chance of cutting me open in the middle of the dance floor,” Hawke tells him, turning the page of the newspaper, a smile on her face. He leans back in the chair, hand rubbing at the stubble on his chin.

“We can’t all go. Are you going to take Fenris with you?” Her eyes narrow at him over the paper.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Varric leans back even further, his hands linked over his stomach, staring at the ceiling. Hawke is still watching him, the paper folding under her hands as she grips tightly at it. Finally, he sighs and shrugs, moving forward to cross his arms over the desk.

“The poor bastard thought he was going to save you. The way Aveline tells it he was ready to essentially murder them all to get to you. So he rescues you from this demon and instead of thanks, you send him away like a puppy that shit the bed.” The paper straightens as she huffs, hiding her face behind it. She hides so Varric can’t see the pink in her cheeks, the way her brows knit, the downturn of her lips.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Maybe not birdie, but he definitely doesn’t. He’ll brood about it until the world ends. Can you at least try and put him out of his misery? That’ll most likely help with whatever’s eating you too.” She folds the paper down, throwing it onto Varric’s desk. Her shoulders are stiff, her hands wound into her skirts, knuckles pressing against her knees. She bites her bottom lip as she thinks. She breathes deeply, exhaling sharply, rubbing her temple with a hand.

“Fine. I’ll take him with me. In return, you arrange the invitation and the accommodations,” she says, turning to Varric. He throws back his head and laughs. He nods agreement as he waves her away, and she grins as she stands. Anders is waiting for her outside the door, his arms crossed as he leans against the wall. He straightens when he sees her, and she links arms with him as they walk back to her estate.

“You got what you needed?” Anders asks her quietly, leaning his head towards hers as they pass others on the street.

“I did. He’ll be throwing an extravagant party. It would be a shame if I didn’t attend, hmm?” Anders chuckles and she tightens her hold on him as she leans her head on his shoulder and smiles. The closer to her estate they come, the more her smile disappears. At her door, she reaches for Anders and takes his hands in hers.

“Are you sure about this? The personal physician of Knight-Commander Meredith… it seems more dangerous than necessary. I can protect you,” she tells him. He squeezes her hands before letting them go.

“And who will protect you? At least this way I have a bit of leverage of my own. Have fun on your ‘holiday’.” Anders says, a warm smile on his face. He gives her a short wave as he leaves. She watches him go, disappearing into the crowd, and she wraps her arms around herself. She can’t help but feel uneasy, the dread coiling like a snake in her belly. She enters her home, leaning against the door with her eyes closed, and rubbing at her temples once again.

“Bodahn,” she says, once she finds him, “I need you to send a message to the Hanged Man.”

* * *

 

Fenris wrinkles his nose the instant he enters the flower shop. The scent of them is almost overwhelming, and there’s barely room to walk and browse. He shuffles through the store, his hands shoved in his pockets as he glances at all the flowers. He cocks his head at one, a large orange thing, and bends over to take a closer look. The locket slips from his shirt, dangling from his neck. “Oh! How lovely! A gift from your lady?” Fenris straightens as the shop keep approaches him, a smile on his face, gesturing at the locket hanging from Fenris’s neck.

He quickly gathers up the locket, slipping it under his shirt once again. “I – yes,” Fenris says haltingly, looking everywhere but his face.

“There are only two reasons a man comes to buy flowers – to woo and to apologize. Since she’s giving you gifts, what on earth have you done to that poor woman? You’ll need a magnificent bouquet, no? To win back her heart?” Fenris stiffens, about to protest, but his shoulders hunch in defeat. The shop keep laughs, and he pats Fenris on the shoulder. He hums as he moves around the shop, pulling flowers at seemingly random.

“Here we have the purple hyancinth. It is beautiful, yes? It means such sorrow, and asks forgiveness. We shall need these, as well as… _mi amore_ ,” he has a fond look on his face as he touches the wedding ring on his finger, “this is her favorite flower. The primrose. Nothing says I cannot live without you like a primrose.” With each one, he passes a stem to Fenris, who holds them awkwardly in his hands. “And of course, the forget-me-not, to show you treasure the memories of your truest love. What do you think?”

“I am – I’m not – I will leave it to you,” Fenris sighs, “you seem the expert.” The shop keep laughs, slapping him on the chest before veritably diving in and collecting flowers. Fenris shifts awkwardly on his feet as he works, leaning against the counter. He plays with the edges of his coat as the shop keep hums and arranges, before presenting Fenris with a gorgeous bouquet. Fenris draws coin from his pocket and passes it over the counter.

“Hopefully next time it will be a nice and simple bouquet of roses, hmm? Good luck, my friend,” he says, waving and winking at Fenris as the door chimes. Fenris clutches the flowers in his hand as he walks the streets of Hightown, staring at them and knowing that they will not be enough. Hawke had sent an impersonal summons to the Hanged Man, asking him to come to her estate when he had the time. He had left the moment he received the note.

Fenris had not gone back to her estate since the exorcism, had not talked to her since she asked him to leave. Anders was kind enough to keep him informed on Hawke’s progress. Her anger and melancholy fading until Hawke was finally Hawke again, the demons influence finally burning away. Anders had sent him a photograph, recently taken, of Hawke. She is sitting on the couch, her elbow on the armrest, her chin on her hand. Her other hand is in her lap. She is looking away from the camera, into the distance, her profile illuminated by the fire behind her. The photograph rests on the table beside his bed.

Bodahn opens the door when he knocks, asking Fenris to please follow him. She is in the dining room, a book open in her hand. She gives a half glance up from the page when Bodahn announces him. She sighs and sharply closes her book, a hand now playing with her dangling necklace. “Fenris,” she says, “there’s something you could aid me with, if you’d like. After Hadriana’s death, Danarius has retreated. One of his closest allies is – are those flowers?” She finally looks at him properly, at the bouquet nestled in his arms, wrapped in soft paper.

“They are for you,” he says, striding forward awkwardly, standing before her, holding them out. She fixes him with an unreadable stare, before she finally reaches out slowly to take them. She adjusts them in her arms, bending forward, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. A hand reaches out, moving over the petals, and he thinks he can see the faintest trace of a smile at the corners of her mouth.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, “they’re lovely.” She moves to stand, holding them in one arm, the other reaching for him. She adjusts the collar of his jacket, smoothing it down, focusing her gaze on that instead of his face. Bodahn appears with a vase filled with water, giving Fenris a wink as he takes the flowers, unwrapping them and placing them in the vase. The color of them is a stark and vibrant change to the now burnt, dead, blackened garden that sits just outside the window.

Her hands clench into fists, rolling her knuckles against the table, waiting to speak as Bodahn leaves once again. “As I was saying, Danarius has retreated. He is moving his allies to the forefront instead. One such ally is Duke Prosper, a vampire same as Danarius. He’s from Orlais. He’s holding a banquet at Chateau Haine, in the Vimmark Mountains, his vacation home, for those in Kirkwall. Killing him will strike a vicious blow against Danarius. It will force him back into play,” Hawke says this all quickly, rattling it off like a memorized speech. “Will you come with me?” As if she could ever doubt his answer.

“Yes. I’ll come with you.”

“Should – should we move your things from the Hanged Man? They could stay here. To ensure their safety, of course. I don’t want to risk you getting robbed while we’re gone,” she’s determinately looking everywhere but him, her knuckles still pressing against the table as she shifts from one foot to the other. He hides the small huff of laughter, his hand brushing at his chin to hide the smile.

“My things will be fine. There’s nothing of interest there for thieves,” he says, the hand that was on his face dropping to his side. Not before it touches the locket. That and the photograph were the only things of value to him. She tells him that they have a suit for him, and whatever other things he might need. He only needs bring what he wants. He packs quickly. A few spare clothes. The notebook. The photograph.

The carriage ride to their hotel is spent in silence, either reading or sleeping, casting a few small glances at each other. The hotel is a large, extravagant place. Fenris’s jaw drops when he sees it. It’s in the small town close to the Chateau, but it is clearly the main attraction. It’s practically a palace. “There should be a reservation under the name of Hawke,” Hawke tells the man at the front desk, whose finger runs down the list of bookings. He smiles when he finds it.

“Ah yes, the honeymoon suite.” Hawke’s face drops.

“There must be a mistake, there should be two rooms.” The man shakes his head and says, no, it’s the honeymoon suite. Large bedroom, one bed, one bath. Fenris can see Hawke’s face go pink even as she forces a smile and thanks the man. Internally, she is seething. Hawke makes a mental note to murder Varric publicly and brutally when they return to Kirkwall. She imagines that strangling the little man would make her feel better. (Varric suddenly feels the hair on the back of his neck stand out as a cold foreboding shiver runs down his spine.)

Hawke drops her bag to the floor, the servants rushing in behind her to hang her dress and his suit in the closet. She presses coin into the hands of the servants as they leave, and she shuts the door heavily behind them, leaning her head against the door momentarily as she grits her teeth. Her emotions are raw, close to the surface after the exorcism, and she struggles to contain herself.

“I will sleep on the floor,” Fenris says instantly.

“That’s not necessary. The bed is large enough,” Hawke says, waving away any other protestations. The bed is indeed veritably huge, although they barely notice. They’re both tucked away at the edges of it, the center wide and empty. Hawke tosses and turns, before rolling onto her back, staring at the moonlight on the ceiling. Her hands are linked over her stomach, and her fingers are tapping on her knuckles as she thinks. She looks over at Fenris, his back, the quiet way he breathes.

“Are you asleep?” She asks this softly, barely a whisper. He grunts nonetheless. She turns on her side towards him, biting her bottom lip.

“You bought me flowers. Why?” She hears him sigh before he finally turns over to face her.

“To apologize. I had offended you and I was unsure the best way to –”

“Offended me? Offended? I asked you to leave and instead you invaded my mind.” She shoots straight up in the bed, sitting with the blankets clenched in her fists, a furious frown on her face. “I was _winning_ until you two came fumbling along and mucked it all up. You could have died Fenris. Or worse – a mindless tranquil husk. You could have been another person that was dead because of me.” He slowly sits up as well, his own frown beginning to blossom.

“I did not think –”

“No, it’s clear you weren’t thinking,” she says as she rolls her eyes.

“A small measure of gratitude would do you no harm. We saved you,” he says, his voice low, the beginnings of anger at the edges.

“I wouldn’t have needed saving if you both weren’t so hopeless! You would have been lost to the demon if I hadn’t divided my strength and interfered on your behalf.” _This isn’t real, Fenris. It’s time to go_. He feels a small pang of guilt at that.

“I’m not arguing with you in the middle of the night. I’m sleeping on the floor,” he grumbles.

“Fine,” she snaps as she throws herself back down, her back towards him.

“Fine!” Fenris snaps back, grabbing a pillow and tossing it to the floor before grabbing at one of the blankets on the bed and roughly pulling, stealing it from her grasp. He grumbles as he lies down beside the bed, on the hard floor, arms crossed and frowning. He hears her moving on the bed, her face appearing over the edge.

“We’re not done talking about this,” Hawke hisses before disappearing once again. He lets out an exasperated groan, covering his eyes with his arms.

He watches her affix dangling earrings, while he adjusts his tie. They’ve spent the morning in relative silence, aside from some formal pleasantries. She sits at the vanity, her dress black and beaded, a matching choker around her neck. Her hair is curled and bound, soft and beautiful on her head. Once again he feels inadequate in her presence, as she pulls the red across her lips in gentle strokes. She slips into her shoes, her heels, with practiced ease. She spends the carriage ride looking out the window, at the rolling green hills and the mountains in the distance, the sunlight flickering on her face. He does not look away from her.

She links arms with him when they arrive and he’s ashamed at the warmth that spreads from his core at her touch. He’s missed it for far too long. They move up the stairs together, and Fenris passes their invitation to the man at the door, who checks it with the guest list before allowing them in. Chateau Haine is a large and expensive estate, and they are ushered into the gardens. Many servants run to and fro with plates of cheese and wine, offering to every gilded guest. The majority of them are Orlesians, having followed Duke Prosper to his vacation home. Their host is nowhere to be seen.

Hawke and Fenris move around the garden together, and find that only certain doors are opened for access. A few rooms are available for the guests while the rest are locked tight. “We’ll need a key for the rest of the estate,” Hawke whispers as she leans closer to Fenris. “No doubt Prosper is hiding in one of his bedrooms until the sun goes down.” They make their way back to the garden, Hawke lifting a glass from one of the offered plates and taking a cursory sip.

“Ah, _ma chérie,_ what a lovely dress,” one of the guests slides up to Hawke, her hand extended in greeting. “ _Un tel choix de couleur intéressante_. Bright colors are more in season now, wouldn’t you agree?”

“ _Merci madame. Je choisis mes vêtements pour moi, pas pour d’autres_ ,” Hawke replies in flowing Orlesian. The woman scoffs, pursing her lips.

“How rude,” she mutters as she leaves. Hawke chuckles to herself as she watches her go.

“I didn’t know you spoke Orlesian,” Fenris says, “and I suspect you’re a bit more Ferelden today than you would be otherwise.” The smile spreads across Hawke’s face.

“Perhaps.” She takes another sip of the drink, her eyes still scanning the crowd. She sends away any who approach them, either in common or in biting Orlesian. She’s curt and focused, and Fenris is merely content to stand by her side. “There,” she says, “that man. He’s been slipping in and out of the estate. Keys in his left vest pocket. I’ll be back in a moment.” She passes her glass to Fenris as she moves across the courtyard.

She approaches him with a glowing smile. She’s talking to him amicably, and Fenris can see his stiff shoulders relax as she coaxes him into laughter. She’s blushing, suddenly shy, and a hand moves to his shoulder. She leans closer, her other hand on his vest as she leans in to whisper into his ear. Fenris can’t see her face, hidden behind his, but he can see the man’s face turn a royal shade of crimson. He doesn’t even feel it when she pulls the keys from his pocket, slipping them into her own, in the folds of her dress. When she withdraws, she gives him another small smile and wave, leaving him standing in a daze.

“I have them,” she tells Fenris, as he passes the empty glass to a passing servant. He only grunts.

“I was watching you,” he says tersely, rubbing the space between his brows. She steps back, looking at him with one eyebrow raised, scrutinizing him.

“You’re jealous,” she says, surprise registering on her face. “You’re jealous that I’m flirting with someone to steal from them.” She barks out a harsh and quick laugh. “What a farce. You have no right. You gave up that claim when you left _that_ night,” she hisses in a low whisper, the anger hanging on her brow. She turns on her heel and moves to leave, but he snakes out his hand and wraps it around her upper arm, dragging her back to him.

“ _Fasta vass_ woman,” he leans down to whisper in her ear. “You wish to discuss this here? In front of everyone?” He watches through narrowed eyes as the crowd mills about them, sipping at their drinks and laughing at whatever insufferable gossip is making the rounds. It is loud, it is crowded and Fenris feels almost suffocated by it. Hawke taps her foot like a cross child and glares at him.

“It’s not my first choice, no,” she says through clenched teeth. Fenris rolls his eyes as she shakes her arm loose. He thinks that’s the end of it, but she has an iron grip on his hand, and she drags him into the estate, through hallways before choosing an empty drawing room. She closes the door behind her and crosses her arms.

“You left Fenris. You left my bed, you left my home, and you left me. I can’t have you being possessive any time we try to do something like this,” Hawke begins arguing immediately. Her tone is hot and angry, but she is keeping her voice at a lowered pitch, to not attract unwanted attention. The earrings bounce with each shake of her head, each exasperated step. Even like this, so pointed and sharp, she is stunning.

“ _Festis bei umo canavarum_ ,” he complains, whirling away from her, running his hands through his hair.

She makes an irritated _ugh_ before, “if we’re going to argue, at least use words I can understand.” Fenris has never been one for words, for discussion. Instead he turns back to her, hands crushing onto her shoulders to pull her into an irate kiss. She is frozen, for a moment, her hands unmoving at her side, before she presses them against his chest and pushes. Again, and again. He starts to apologize, but before the words can leave his mouth, she has a hand in his hair, dragging him back to her mouth.

“You’re cruel,” she whispers, a hand still on his chest.

“Yes,” he tells her as he moves her back to lean against a desk. He has a hand on her jaw, fingertips at her earlobe. The metal of her earrings are cold upon his hand, and he swipes a thumb across her cheekbone. He brings it back to hook around her chin, and tilts her head out of the way, to suckle at her other ear, and downwards still, to her neck.

“No,” she says, pulling away slightly. He stops instantly, beginning to step away, when she hooks a finger around the lip of his trousers and pulls him back. “Not where people can see,” she says, as her fingers deftly undo the clasps. He is hard for her, and he groans when she pulls him free and wraps her hand around him. With her other hand, she licks her thumb, then swipes it across the sensitive tip of his cock. He stiffens instantly.

“ _Venhedis_ ,” he grunts, dropping his head to her shoulder. She clicks her tongue against her teeth, reminding him to use words she can understand. His hands claw desperately at her dress, and she rises slightly from the table so that he can drag it past her hips. He pushes her drawers out of the way, and dips a finger into the wetness that awaits him.

“We’re not done,” she grumbles, “I’m still – ah – mad with you. We need to talk about -”

“Shut. Up,” he rasps, moving a hand to wrap around her throat. He bats her hands away from him, using his own hand to position himself at her entrance. He doesn’t know when it happened, but it did happen, but she was no longer Hawke, witch. Now, she was Hawke, his. _You’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine._ He slams inside her, his hips moving of their own accord.

She has both hands on the desk, to brace herself against his relentless assault. He impales her without mercy, and keeps his hand around her throat. She has one leg wrapped around him, pressing against him, encouraging every thrust. The other leg is trapped under his merciless grip, hands bruising into flesh, as he struggles to maintain control of himself. It would be too simple to lose himself in her and let the wolf take over.

They rut together like beasts, the both of them glaring at each other. Her teeth are barred, tongue trapped behind them, the promise of the argument to come in every grunt and groan. He glares back, this insufferable, _ravishing_ , woman, unable to leave well enough alone. There is laughter outside the door, and even when it clicks open, they do not stop. Instead, they snarl in unison at the two party-goers who have disturbed them. Hawke raises a hand and pushes, slamming the door in their shocked faces with an unseen force.

That hand then holds onto his shoulder with a crushing grip as she grinds her hips towards him. Hair is coming loose from where she had tied it up, black strands across her face, forehead glistening with the effort of their coupling. He pushes his mouth on top of hers, and forces his tongue inside. She bites at it, and pulls, asserting her dominance. He pulls back with a groan, his hands shaking. “ _Come_ ,” he demands it of her.

“You don’t get to tell me to do anything,” she snarls in reply. He pulls out slightly, hovering at her entrance, watching as she pants. He keeps himself there, his cock just barely in her cunt, watching as she grinds against him, a desperate attempt to have him back inside of her.

“ _Come_ ,” he orders her again.

“No.” He slams back inside her, filling her completely in one thrust. She gasps and stutters, throwing her head back momentarily to bask in the feeling. He resumes their breakneck pace, not giving her a moment to breathe.

“Come for me, you fucking witch,” he growls.

“You bastard,” she gasps, “you animal.” Despite her protestations, she obeys. He’s so damnably gorgeous, white locks plastered against his forehead, eyes half-lidded and mouth open. Anything he asks, anything he wants, she cannot help but give in. Her heat clenches in waves around him, and she throws back her head to croon as the orgasm overcomes her. Her breasts threaten to spill from her corset, and they bounce ever so beautifully in Fenris’s line of sight. Her leg shakes around him as she cries out, her head swinging back to look at him. She can see that he is close. “Your turn, asshole.”

Yes, yes, and yes. His head falls back to her shoulder as his hips pound into her, instinct taking over from rhythm. He is unable to slow himself, each thrust punctuated with a grunt. Her hand winds its way into his hair and holds him there against her as he shakes and shudders, spilling his seed into her cunt. “ _Amatus_ ,” he moans when he comes, chest heaving with much needed breath afterwards.

She cleans herself with whatever she can find, soiling Duke Prosper’s quilted doilies with his cum. She stands in front of a mirror and re-adjusts her hair and her clothing, smoothing any smeared makeup. She turns to him, eyes narrowed, and asks “the last thing you said. What does it mean?”

“Nothing.” _Beloved_.

“Fine,” she says, “but we need to go now, before Prosper decides to join the party.” He nods in agreement, following behind her as she puts a hand to the back of her neck, playing with the stray wisps of hair there. He resists the urge to fix them for her. Hawke slips the key into the lock, opening the hallway up for them. She closes the door behind them, and locks it again. Chateau Haine is more of a castle than an estate, made of strong stone and brick, and Prosper has only just begun to fit wiring for electricity. Torches still hang from the walls.

They walk the corridor silently, pausing at every corner, listening for guards and servants. Hawke’s steps are light and quick, the heels of her shoes tapping against the stone as she walks. Fenris is more silent, his footsteps brisk, keeping a wary eye over his shoulder for any who might follow them. She touches the bannister with a light hand, holding up her skirts as she makes her way up the stairs. He peers upwards, in the center of the spiral staircase, to see a glass chandelier hanging above them. Wealth and excess. It reminds him too much of Danarius and his estate in Tevinter.

They reach the landing and Hawke places her hand upon the wall. The stone is cool, and she closes her eyes and bites at her lip in concentration. “There’s no one on this floor. Except for one,” she says after a moment, her eyes opening and turning to look at him. “He thinks himself invulnerable. More powerful than us.” Fenris watches as she smirks with grim determination, and he can almost feel the magic rolling over him in waves.

From what Anders had told him, Hawke hadn’t used her magic since the possession. Not even for the smallest of things. Out of fear perhaps, or simply just because it was simply too raw. Now Fenris feels it keenly, raising the hairs on his arms, and welcomes Hawke’s confidence. Here is the woman who stared down a night-witch and told her that she was better. She is better. More than he ever could have possibly imagined. _You are mine_.

Her fingers stay on the wall as they walk, turning corners, and she leads them straight to Prosper’s door. She looks at him for a moment, and they nod at each other in silent agreement. She pulls up her dress, and removes the knife strapped to her leg. A thin, small thing, she passes it to Fenris. It is warm in his palm and he holds it tightly. She turns the knob. They find a vampire waiting for them. He sits behind his desk, stroking his grey beard. “ _Bien_ , you received my invitation. I am so happy you could attend,” Prosper says in a thick Orlesian accent. Hawke smiles and gives the smallest of curtsies.

“How could I refuse giving the thorns in the side of Danarius an invitation to my home? A chance to see you, yes? Know what he desires so badly. I see you now and _tu n’es rien_ ,” Prosper says, leaning back in his chair, his fingers tapping together. Hawke keeps the smile on her face.

“You’ll be nothing soon as well,” Hawke replies. Prosper throws back his head and laughs, mouth open wide with mirth, giving them ample view of the fangs sharpening in his mouth. All his teeth end in points, biting and dangerous, and the grin does not leave his face. He stands slowly, his fingernails sharpening into claws of their own. There is no hesitation, no fear in his stance. He wholly believes that he can kill them. Hawke is eager to prove him wrong.

Prosper makes his way around the desk, claws scraping into the wood. He looks at them both, Fenris with the knife in his hand and Hawke raising her palms, gathering the magic in her fists. He smirks, again, and cracks his neck back and forth. “ _Prêt_?” Prosper asks. Hawke starts first, throwing her magic at him, intending to send him flying. He brushes it off as though she had gently pushed him. He laughs in the wake of it, while Hawke only frowns.

Fenris feels her magic wash over him as he races forward, a protective warmth that surrounds him. He dashes forward, more sure of his strike knowing that Hawke is at his back, but Prosper smiles and catches Fenris’s wrist. He moved faster than Fenris could see, and acted as though Fenris were crawling towards him. Fenris drops the knife and screams when Prosper snaps his wrist as easily as breaking a twig.

Hawke launches herself forward, her hands igniting into flames, winding into Prosper’s jacket and trying to pull him away from Fenris. He is unmoved by her efforts, but drops Fenris, who crumples to his knees. Prosper then turns his attentions to her. “You think this hurts me, you Ferelden bitch? Your fire does nothing. You cannot kill a vampire,” he laughs, his eyes wide, crazed as he wraps his hands around Hawke’s arms and pushes her to the ground.

He sits on top of her, straddling her, opening his mouth wide as he speaks. “I will you show you pain, _ma petite fille_ , and I will make you my thrall. You’re pretty enough.” The flames burn hotter, brighter, but Prosper is healing as fast as it can burn. She pulls her hands to his face, pushing against his chin, his jaw, trying to stop his descent towards her throat. She grits her teeth, the fire dying, and pushes, pushes, pushes, trying to slam him away as easily as she had slammed the door. When that fails, she squeezes her eyes closed and covers herself in a barrier.

Prosper snarls in frustration as his head knocks against it. “ _Votre magie ne peut pas protéger vous toujours_ ,” he sneers, beginning to pound his fist against it.

“I don’t need forever. Just long enough to kill you,” she says. Fenris plunges the knife into Prosper’s back, the wound smoking and hissing against the silver of the knife. He cradles his broken wrist against his chest. When Hawke pushes again, this time, Prosper does go flying. He is screeching, mad, wild and panicked, reaching for the knife in his back. Hawke reaches first. She pulls it out, and plunges it back in again. And again. And again. And again. The room is filled with the stench of burning, rotting flesh.

Fenris rolls his head from side to side, his eyes closed. When he opens them again, they are yellowed, and he bares his claws. Hawke holds Prosper in place with the knife while Fenris opens his throat with a claw. Hawke hastily erects a barrier around him, protecting Fenris from the blood spatter, and the blood that now begins to pour from his opened neck. It is black and foul, sizzling as it hits the ground. Prosper follows its example, his body shriveling and shrinking, becoming a charred and blackened ruin on a corpse.

Hawke and Fenris look at each other, the both of them breathing heavily, blood spattered on Hawke’s face. Fenris draws the wolf back into himself, wincing when he moves his arm. Hawke steps around the body, one hand on his shoulder, while the other reaches for his wrist. “Anders is the healer, not me,” she says, “I’m sorry.” She reaches up and her hand shifts from his shoulder to his mouth.

Her hand muffles his pained cry, as she squeezes against his broken bones. It is as though he is on fire, his skin being stretched and ripped, and she only tightens her grip on him when he tries to pull away. When she finally lets him go, level on her feet, he looks at his wrist in wonder. He flexes his fingers and finds there is only the smallest amount of lingering pain. “Anders should look at it when we get back,” she says, “just to be sure that I did it right.”

Fenris nods, reaching for her face, smearing away blood from her cheek with his thumb. She closes her eyes and leans into his touch when his hand remains. “Thank you Hawke,” he says quietly. Her eyes open slowly, looking at him shyly, his thumb still rubbing circles into her cheekbone.

“We should go before someone comes looking for him,” she says, pulling away from him.

He nods. “Agreed.” She reaches downwards and removes the knife, cleaning it against the bottom of her dress before strapping it one again to her thigh. He takes one of her hands in his as they leave the room. They make their way back down the staircase and instead of turning to the gardens, they look instead for a back door to sneak away from. Vaguely, they can hear shouting behind them. Hawke stops Fenris with a tug of her hand, before she bends down and removes her shoes. She holds them tightly in her free hand as they begin to run.

It’s absurd, all of it. Nothing like killing a supposedly immortal creature to remind them how well they work together. How well they fight together. How well they fit together. The laughter bubbles up from her, snickering as they weave through the kitchens, past baffled servants and cooks, and it explodes when her bare feet touch grass. They run past perfectly crafted shrubs, mathematically planted flowers. Fenris is laughing as well, holding tight to her as they run, down the path towards the carriages.

They reach the gate breathlessly, not from running but from the laughter. They work their way down the line of carriages, until they find their own. The driver had been paid handsomely, for his patience, his discretion, his speed. He leaves the estate immediately, while Hawke and Fenris sit next to each other, still working off their laughter. She turns to him, her face close to his.

“Tell me what _amatus_ means,” she says. He chuckles under his breath and shakes his head, smiling at her.

“No,” he says, he leans forward, intending to kiss her cheek, lips, something, anything. She stops him, pressing two fingers against his lips.

“We still need to talk about _things_. But… later,” she says softly, putting her hand in his. She leans her head on his shoulder, sighing contently as she does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)


	13. Burn the Witch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Fenris.” The wolf stops before her, face level with hers. She reaches for him, a hand on soft fur.

Hawke’s eyes blink open slowly, to the sound of chirping birds and the brightness of sunlight spilling into the room. The window is open slightly, the breeze moving the curtains and making the room cooler. She stretches and yawns before rolling over onto the other side of the bed. She finds it empty but still warm, evidence of Fenris. It’s too tempting to simply stay, to keep under the covers and forget that they were going back to Kirkwall today. To Kirkwall and all the problems that come with it. She sighs and closes her eyes, before sitting up when she hears the doorknob being fiddled with.

Fenris enters, a tray in his hand, and there’s a small flicker of a smile when he sees her awake. He’s already dressed and she feels only slightly guilty for still being in her nightgown. Only slightly. He places the tray beside her on the bed, filled with food, and passes her the neatly folded newspaper. “Good morning,” he says softly, “we made the front page.” She tucks hair behind her ear as she scans the headline. _Gruesome Death at Chateau Haine_. Fenris sits beside her and leans his head against her shoulder.

She smiles, bringing her knees up to her chest and lightly touching his head, threading fingers through his hair. “Good. Danarius won’t be able to miss it,” she says before clearing her throat, voice still hoarse from sleep. Fenris reaches blindly and finds the glass of water on the tray before passing it to her. She gulps it down gratefully. “We should probably leave, however, before they start interrogating everyone on that guest list. The Kirkwall Captain’s reach is long, but I don’t think even Aveline would be able to get us out of this one.”

They pack quickly, working together, eating food here and there. Fenris helps her into her corset, taking a moment to brush a hand down her back before he does. A single, gentle stroke, the barest of touches. Gooseflesh follows it, a shiver that works its way down her spine. He can see scars on her shoulder, scars of his making, which marks her as his. He touches it lightly before stepping away, brushing a hand through his hair, reaching for another piece of toast.

Their exit is smooth, no one troubling them or stopping them. Soon enough they are in the carriage, on their way back to Kirkwall. Hawke reads, sitting most unladylike, leaning against the side while one leg is extending down the rest of the seat, the other planted on the floor. It’s a casual stance, comfortable, no longer needing to hold herself so firmly in his presence. Fenris, for his part, is content to watch her, idly chatting about the plot of the book. She complains heavily about its flaws, but she reads it like she’s starving for each word. He admires that in her. She is wholly committed to everything she does, to the bitter end.

She closes the book slowly, one folded edge marking her page. She presses the book into her lap as she sits up straight. Her fingers tap against the cover slowly, closing her eyes and sighing. “I am looking forward to being back in Kirkwall,” she says, her eyes opening again. “For all its mess, it is home now.” She hopes that Fenris feels the same way. He’s been running for so long, always looking over his shoulder. She hopes she’s given him a moment to pause, a moment to breathe. She hopes that when they kill Danarius he’ll be able to stop running.

Once her estate comes into sight, she lets out a sigh of relief. With its grand stone walls, the vines that cover it, the heavy wood doors, she finds there is no better safe haven. However, she doesn’t have a chance to revel in it long. She turns the key in the lock, opening the doors, and finds that a veritable group of people stand up at the same time. Aveline, Anders, Sebastian and Merrill are in the living room with Bodahn, all rushing towards her the moment she enters.

Fenris is close behind her with their things, eyebrows rising at the sight of them crowding around her. Sebastian takes Hawke’s arm, “you need to leave now,” he tells her sternly. The others are already moving, Merrill bounding up the stairs, Anders and Bodahn hauling a trunk between them. Aveline stands at the edge of it all, her arms crossed, the worry in every line of her frown.

“What’s going on?” Hawke asks, narrowing her eyes. Merrill has a small trunk of her own, and Bodahn is out the door in a hurry, loading up the carriage with the new ones. Anders moves in front of Hawke, his hands on her shoulders as he fixes her with a steely gaze, his lips thinned.

“Sebastian and I found out that the Templars suspect you of being a night-witch. They have some sort of evidence against you,” he tells her. Fenris immediately goes stiff, automatically moving to stand closer to Hawke.

“Evidence given to them by Danarius,” Aveline says.

“They want to make you tranquil,” Sebastian says, rubbing his forehead. Tranquility. _I can hear them. Oh Maker, I can hear them all. They’re screaming_. Fenris remembers clearly the terrified looks on Anders and Hawke’s faces when they found the witches in Alrik’s cellar. His hands clench into fists. Her stiffness gives way to red in her cheeks, the anger boiling up from her belly.

“I can fight it. I’m innocent,” she snaps. Aveline slowly shakes her head.

“Not this time. Let us sort this out. We’ll bring you back once we know it’s safe,” Aveline says. Merrill is waiting at the doorway, swaying on her feet.

“Where are we going?” Fenris asks. _We_. None of them miss it. The unspoken promise that wherever Hawke goes, he goes as well.

“To the Dalish,” Merrill says. “The Templars would never go near my clan.” Bodahn returns, tells them that everything is ready. The carriage driver has been paid handsomely, and told their destination. They must leave, before the Templars realize that she’s returned. Before they have a chance to arrest her. Aveline gives her a reassuring smile before she leaves, while Sebastian clasps her hands in his and murmurs a prayer of safety.

“We’ll find a way to make this go away,” Anders tells her in a low voice, standing close to her. “I – we would never allow the Templars to take you.” Hawke nods as she crosses her arms, frown still evident, biting at her bottom lip.

“Danarius is clever, I’ll give him that. We removed a piece from the game and now he’s removing me entirely, without having to lift a finger. Letting the Templars do his dirty work,” Hawke spits out. Anders nods, smiles sadly, touching her arm briefly before leaving.

Hawke moves towards the door, but before she can reach it, Fenris pulls her back. He holds her wrist in his hand, the other on her cheek. “They will not have you. I won’t let them,” he tells her fiercely. _You are mine._ She leans into his touch, her free hand reaching for him, settling on his chest. She takes a deep shuddering breath. She may not show it to the others, but the fear of being made Tranquil sits like a stone on her chest. “I will protect you,” he says.

In the space between them, she calls a fire to her palm. She frowns as she looks at it, Fenris’s hands slipping down her arms. It’s a pale and dying thing, weak and unsteady. “Day-witches walk quickly ahead of their demons. They haunt our steps.” She pulls her hand into a fist, snuffing out the flame. “Night-witches stand on the demons spine. They are carried to power. They have nothing left to fear. I envy that somewhat. The assurance that nothing could hurt you. I know I shouldn’t,” she says.

“I understand,” he tells her quietly. He would be the power for her. Merrill has knitting supplies with her in the carriage, humming lightly as the needles click together. A gaudy thing of many colors, Fenris thinks she’s making a scarf but it’s hard to tell. “Merrill, are you sure you want to go the camp?” Hawke leans over and asks her quietly.

“Oh well, not really, but it’s the safest place. I’d like to ask the Keeper some questions about the mirror too. I’m sure they won’t mind us being there,” Merrill smiles. Hawke smiles back, but it’s a sad one, a knowing one. Fenris sits quietly on the other side of the carriage, and does not pry. If it was important, Hawke would tell him.

The day passes quickly and they make few stops on the way to Sundermount. Hawke insists on breaks every few hours, to exit the carriage and stretch, picking at the food Bodahn packed for them. They eat together on the side of a hill, long grass blowing in the wind, Hawke holding onto her hat. Merrill has scrambled up a tree, bare feet dangling as she sits on a branch. The countryside rolls out before them, an endless sea of green.

They reach the camp before nightfall. There are lanterns in the hands of the two Dalish that guard the camp. It’s Hawke who exits the carriage first, her hands outstretched. “Greetings. Is the Keeper about? We’re friends.”

“ _Andaran atish’an_ , Hawke. We know you,” one of the guards grumbles. They guide the carriage down twisting paths, through thick branch and bush, until it reaches a clearing. Aravels sit in a circle around a large campfire, at the base of Sundermount. Aravels – or landships – are the caravans of choice used by the Dalish. Clans of nomads, moving from place to place, never staying anywhere too long. The aravels were their homes, carrying all things of value. Adorned with bright and colorful sails, they were a sight to behold. Lanterns swing on wire strung between the aravels, and the clan sparks with liveliness. The Dalish are talking and laughing amongst each other, paying no mind to the new arrivals.

“Marethari,” Hawke greets an older woman warmly and they clasp hands together. “It’s good to see you again.”

“And you, Hawke. Is Merrill with you?” There is eagerness in the Keeper’s voice, the hint of a smile around her eyes. Her white hair is pulled back stiffly, but a few stray wisps float about her face. She seems kindly, like a grandmother, and she gives Fenris only a passing look before Merrill gets out of the carriage. There are dark circles under her eyes, and there’s a pallor to her skin. Her hands slip from Hawke’s as she goes to Merrill.

Merrill stands quietly, her hands behind her back, her head bowed as the Keeper approaches. Marethari reaches out gently, taking her face in her hands. “ _Aneth ara._ Welcome home,” she says quietly. Merrill frowns for a moment, her face pinching together, before she spreads her arms and collapses into Marethari’s welcome embrace. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen your face.”

While Merrill’s face markings are dark green, Marethari’s are bright and gold. Swirling and ornate, she carries a staff of gnarled wood, trinkets and feathers hanging from the head of it. All the Dalish are dressed in a medley of clothes, nothing formal, affixed with feathers and bright metals. Eclectic, and beautiful. Merrill, in her white dress, looks out of place among them. Marethari holds tight to one of Merrill’s hands as she moves back towards Fenris and Hawke.

“We’ll find you an aravel to spend the night in. Come, eat and drink with us. We’ll discuss why you’re here in the morning, hmm?” Marethari smiles at them, before pulling Merrill away with her. Fenris takes their things to the aravel they are shown, while Hawke gives a few instructions to the driver. He’s welcome to eat and rest up, but otherwise he is free to leave. He accepts the offer to rest, mostly for the horses as well as himself.

Fenris and Hawke are given a single aravel to share. The inside of the aravel is small, cramped, the whole of the floor covered in fur and working as a make-shift bed. Hawke lights the candles with a flick of her finger, sighing with happiness as she undoes the corset and drops her dress to the ground. In just her brassier and drawers, she collapses into the furs, rubbing her face against them. “Maker, I’m exhausted. Remind me never to travel so much in one day ever again,” she complains.

Fenris chuckles as he undoes the buttons on his vest. She turns over, propping herself up on her elbows as she watches him undress. “Marethari is like Merrill’s mother,” Hawke says suddenly. “I met them both, doing a favor for someone I knew in Ferelden. She begged me to take Merrill with me.”

“Why?” Fenris asks, sitting down cross-legged beside her.

“The mirror. Something from their ancestors. The clan believes it to be evil, that there’s something sick inside of it. Merrill thinks it’s a key to unlocking the lost history of the Dalish. Whatever’s inside it, it killed two members of the clan. Her insistence on meddling with it made her an outcast. They think she’s as evil as the mirror now,” Hawke tells him. “So just – don’t be surprised if she doesn’t get a warm welcome from the others.”

True to her word, the other Dalish pretend that Merrill isn’t even there. If they do, she’s only acknowledged with hateful glances, poisoned words. Merrill keeps to Marethari’s side, chatting quietly with her. Merrill is still choosing to wear those white dresses, keeping herself separate from the rest of her clan. Hawke is dressed more casual than Fenris had ever seen her, no corset necessary, wearing a plain riding suit and a shorter dress. Her hair is done in only a loose braid, to keep it out of her face. She’s tugged along by screaming Dalish children, Hawke laughing behind them as she makes sparks of colorful light dance for them.

Fenris is given a rifle, and taken with the others out on a hunt through the forests of Sundermount. The Dalish throw words of their own language here and there, but they’re always polite enough to correct themselves, clarify to Fenris exactly what they mean. It’s plain to see how close they all are with each other, and what a tight-knit community a Dalish clan could be.

The days slip by with no word from Kirkwall. On the third, Merrill takes Hawke aside. “I want to go to the cave where the mirror was found. There might be answers for me there,” she says. Hawke rubs her forehead before finally nodding. Merrill smiles brilliantly, hugging Hawke tightly. Hawke seeks out Fenris soon after.

“Come with us, please. I just – I have a bad feeling about this,” Hawke tells him, her fist wound in his shirt. Together, the three of them slip away from the camp. Merrill leads them up the paths of Sundermount, where the air grows cold and the fog collects at their feet. The feeling of dread in the pit of Hawke’s stomach grows with each and every step.

There’s a foul wind coming from the opening of the cave. Fenris puts a hand over the gun on his belt, the gun Hawke insisted he bring. Merrill stands at the entrance, swaying on her feet. She looks over her shoulder, at the two of them waiting, before giving them a large smile. She heads into the dark, igniting a fire in her palm. Hawke and Fenris follow.

She leads them through narrow paths, stone cold and wet with condensation. It’s dark but for the fire that leads them, the cave eerily quiet. Their footsteps echo, and water drips off rock and stone to the ground below. She leads them to a clearing, where holes in the stone allow sunlight from outside to flood the area. Fire no longer needed, she extinguishes it quickly.

There’s a statue sitting at the end of the clearing, a gnarled and vaguely threatening figure. It’s sitting cross legged on a pedestal, its arms curled inwards, a sickly smile on its face. It’s surrounded by old candles, weeds and moss, broken stones. An arch of stone surrounds it. An altar then, for some god long dead. This is where the smell originates. This is where the dread sits the worst.

Merrill approaches the altar, her hands outstretched. “That’s not possible” She suddenly cries. She stamps her feet and turns to Hawke, hands in her hair. “There was a demon trapped here. It’s not here anymore!”

“This is the help you were looking for? From a demon!” Hawke moves forward, her hands on Merrill’s shoulders. For a moment, Fenris thinks Hawke might shake the sense back into her. “Do you know how dangerous, how reckless – it was trapped here for a reason! You spoke with it? Is this – is this why you want to fix the mirror so badly? Because it told you to?”

“It’s an _eluvian_! I didn’t need a demon to tell me how important it would be for the Dalish to have a working one again,” Merrill tells her, put out that Hawke doesn’t share the same passion for the mirror that she does.

“Merrill.” Fenris whirls, the gun out of its holster in an instant. Marethari is behind them, at the mouth of the clearing, leaning on her staff. “Had you fixed the eluvian, the demon would have used it to escape. It would have killed you if it could,” she says.

“Keeper,” Merrill says slowly, “what did you do?”

“I took the demon into myself so that it couldn’t reach you,” Marethari smiles. “I’m afraid I’m losing control over it.” As she speaks, Marethari’s stance fails, holding onto the staff to keep herself upright. Her gold markings are turning sickly, a taint working its way through them. “You know what you need to do.”

“I can’t!” Merrill cries, clinging to Hawke with all her might. Hawke is turning protectively, shielding Merrill from Marethari’s twisting form. She cannot protect Merrill from the screams. She cannot protect Merrill when her form begins to shift, the kindly old woman giving way to a hulking demon. Its eyes are an abyss, more and more blinking open. Twisted and scaled, screaming and snarling, its mouth is lined with row after row of teeth spitting dark matter.

The demon is huge, much larger than them, its claws and arms a weapon of immeasurable size. The bullets Fenris fires bounce off of its hardened scales harmlessly. It pays him no mind as it moves closer to Merrill. Hawke raises her hands, the demon slamming into her barrier. It roars with anger, punching and clawing at the shimmering air that blocks its way. Hawke is wincing, crying out, sweat pouring down her brow as she struggles to hold it.

Merrill is an inconsolable mess, fingernails digging into her face as she looks at what was once Marethari. The barrier begins to flicker, Hawke hunching over under the assault. She collapses to her knees, one hand still raised in an attempt to keep it standing. Merrill stays rooted, unable to think, unable to move. The barrier falls. The demon clasps its hands together, raising its arms, ready to bring its hands down like a hammer.

Instead of meeting Hawke, its fists find themselves stopped by the claws of a wolf. The werewolf howls back at the demon, a silver flash in the darkness. Fenris snaps his teeth together, the growl deep in his throat, claws puncturing through the scales of the demon. He throws himself at the demon, latching himself on wherever he can gain a hold. He scrambles upwards, teeth sinking into the demons shoulder. It oozes black blood, and it rages with pain.

Hands reach out, attempting to pull the wolf from its flesh. Hawke is on her feet again, tendrils of electricity sparking between her fingers. She’s pushing at the demon, pulling downwards, attempting to crush it beneath the weight of her power. Her teeth are gritted, her muscles aching as the demon drops to a knee. She’s taking care not to put the weight onto Fenris, onto her white wolf, keeping an eye on him as he slashes at the demons throat.

Merrill takes her place at Hawke’s side. Her hands raise, palms upwards, sickly black smoke oozing from her palms. It seeps into the demons eyes, its mouth, and the wounds that Fenris created. The demon falls even further, roaring while trying to use its hands to keep itself upwards. It shakes and heaves with distress, its face in the ground, the wolf tearing at its neck.

It curls in on itself, the black smoke now seeping from every pore, bones snapping under Hawke’s weight. It’s a relief when it stops moving. A blessing when it stops screaming. It shrinks, shedding scale and tooth, leaving behind only Marethari’s unmarked corpse. A corpse which an angered wolf stands over.

It stalks towards them, eyes yellow and mouth bloodied, on all fours as it approaches. Hawke walks towards him, her hands outstretched. “Fenris,” she says, “you know me.” She never thought she’d be so frightened in the sewers of Kirkwall. The first time she’d seen him so, all anger and fang, trapped in that tight corridor together. In her panic, she called on the demon, pushed the wolf away. She knows it must have hurt him greatly, to have that part of him locked away so forcefully. Even if she could do it again, she wouldn’t.

“Fenris.” The wolf stops before her, face level with hers. She reaches for him, a hand on soft fur. At her touch, the wolf turns, and bounds away. “Fenris!” She calls after him as he disappears into the darkness of the cave. Her hands fall limp to her side, watching him go, listening to Merrill sob behind her.

* * *

It’s taken hours, but Hawke has finally gotten Merrill to sleep. Hours spent talking to the clan, informing them that their Keeper had been possessed by a demon. A demon they blamed Merrill for. The clan had allowed them to stay for a few days more. Once they left however, they would not be welcome back. Merrill had truly lost them all now. So Hawke sat with her, listened as she talked, held her as she cried, brushed back hair as she slept.

Hawke now sits at the edge of the camp, a lantern between her feet and clothes sitting on her lap. In his transformation, Fenris’s clothes had been torn and shredded. Her hands are folded over the clothes, sitting patiently as the crickets sing, the bugs chatter, and darkness takes hold. The last Dalish slip into their aravels, away from the cold of the night but still she sits.

She sits and waits, until she finally hears the snapping of branches, the movement of leaves as someone approaches. She stands when Fenris makes his way towards her. “There you are, I was worried, I had no idea where you wen _mmph_ –” His lips devour hers, his hands on her face. He pulls her close, his tongue warm against hers, eating hungrily into her mouth. The clothes drop from Hawke’s hands as she wraps her arms around him, clinging to him tightly.

Together they stumble towards the aravel, tumbling inside of it onto the furs. Fenris stretches himself out above her. “I am only – a watcher, when the wolf takes over. I could not – you approached it!” His eyes close as he belts out the words. “I thought I might kill you.” She reaches up, pulling an errant branch from his hair, brushing streaks of dirt from his face.

“But you didn’t,” she says quietly. His head drops to her shoulder, hair brushing against her cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I would not have been able to live with myself if the wolf had – if I had hurt you. Your anger with my interference with the demon… I do understand, Hawke. All of it.”

“Fenris, if we’re talking about this, I, ah, want to know why you left. That night. I begged you to stay. Why did you leave?”

“I have thought about the answer a thousand times. The pain, the memories – what your magic did felt exactly like what Danarius did to me. I felt my life slipping away from my control.” She frowns, and he feels her hands tighten on her back.

“No wonder then,” she laughs without humor, “I am no better than Danarius.”

“ _Hawke_.” His hand reaches for her, hard on her chin, forcing her to look at him as he moves above her once again. “I know you did not mean to do such a thing. I know that now… it was hard to overlook in the moment. If I could go back, I would stay.” A kiss chases the brush of his thumbs.

“Forgive me Hawke, I should have stayed.” “Forgive me as well,” she says quietly. His lips find hers again, pressing kiss after kiss, growing in desperation. Her hands travel down his back, finding every rib, each bump of his spine. He is slow to undress her, the both of them moving to their knees as he undoes every knot and pulls her dress over her head. She pushes him back to lean against the wall of the aravel, moving forward to straddle him after taking off her drawers.

Her hands press against his chest as she leans forward, seeking another kiss. She lowers herself onto his cock slowly, gasping as his hands knead into her thighs. Her back arches as she moves against him, breasts bouncing with her movements. He kisses the space between her breasts, his hands traveling up her back. “I will protect you,” he whispers. One of her hands goes to his shoulder, and she sinks down to kiss him lightly.

“I would like – I want – to stop running. I want to stop running with you,” he says. Her cheeks are red, and her breathing audible, every thrust torturously slow. “I should not have left that night. I was a coward. I should have told you how I felt,” he groans. Her hands shift, covering his mouth.

“D-don’t say it,” she murmurs, “Not unless you mean it.” He pulls her hand off his mouth as he moves them, one hand around her waist, so that she is pinned beneath him. His movements take over from hers as her legs wrap around her waist. With the hand he has caught he entwines their fingers, pressing it down against the furs, his other arm bent beside her so that he may press kisses to her cheek and temple, and to her lips.

“Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you,” he whispers hoarsely into her ear. “If there is a future to be had, I will walk into it gladly at your side.” Her free hand is tight on his back, shaking as she cries out, her feet pressing against his ass.

“Come home,” she says.

“Yes,” he growls, “you are mine.”

“Maker, _yes_.”

“I am yours,” he breathes as he lets go of her hand to kneel back, taking her hips in his hands. He lifts her to catch a between angle, thrusting hard and deep. He relishes the way she gasps, the way her hands press against him, fluttering on his skin. Her mouth opens as they rock together, and he quickly bends down to her. She has a hand on the back of his neck, pulling him close, and he catches her cries in his mouth. Her toes curl, her legs shaking, her hand fisting on his back as she comes. His breathing comes in short spurts, forehead pressed tight against hers as he spills his seed inside of her.

* * *

Merrill remains in her aravel for the next six days. Hawke and Fenris take part in whatever the clan asks them to do. Where there was once warmth, there is coolness towards them now. The hunters chatter together, no longer translating for Fenris. Mothers hold tight to their children, and do not let them go to Hawke. When the carriage arrives, there’s almost tight relief at its sighting.

“We’ve found a way,” Sebastian tells Hawke. “With Orsino’s help. You’ll be hunting night-witches. There are three of them in the city – it will help wipe your slate clean. The Templars have agreed to this.” Hawke and Fenris exchange a glance. Do this, and the hunt for Danarius can continue smoothly. His actions against her have shown his hand. He’s frightened of them. They would give him good reason to be afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)


	14. Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danarius is grinning, his hands clasped behind his back, leaning forward. He brings with him a horde of thralls, practically crawling all over one another to be beside their master. Fenris goes cold. His lungs choke out the last of air, his stomach descending into a pit.

She wakes with a card under her pillow. She doesn’t remember getting up, slipping it from her deck, sliding it into the bed with her. The ten of swords – unmitigated disaster. Hawke sits on the edge of the bed, the card between fingers, and her hand clenches into the bed sheet. The full moon still sits high in the sky streaming soft light through her windows. She pulls one of the blankets from the bed as she moves, wrapping it around her shoulders.

She makes her way down the stairs, hand on the rail. Her steps are light and quiet, the stairs barely creaking under her weight. She settles herself down on the couch in the sitting room, lighting one of the nearby candles with a flick on her hand. It’s a small light, barely bright, but for her it is enough. One the main floor, this close to the kitchen and to the door of the cellar she can hear it. Loud thumping like someone beating fists against the cellar walls. A roar of frustration. The rattling of chains. Claws raking against stone. A mournful howl.

She stretches her legs, pulling the blanket tighter around her as she adjusts the pillow. She settles in, closing her eyes and listening to Fenris’s wolf. The card is still in her hands, pressed against her chest. A warning. They’re meeting with the Templars today. Hawke intends to finish this task quickly. Kill the night-witches, find Danarius. He’s close. She can feel it in her blood. She taps fingers against the back of the card as she plans their next move.

Fenris lies with his back against stone, his arms outstretched beside him. There’s fur and teeth on the floor around him and what remains of his claws. More scars added to the stone of the cellar. He closes his eyes, focuses on breathing. He slips out of the chains. Enough space for a human to escape, not enough for the much larger wolf. He stands on unsteady legs, going for the cellar door. There are clothes waiting for him on the kitchen table. He dresses unceremoniously, methodically.

He rubs his brows as he walks, knowing the way back to his room well enough to find his way with his eyes closed. “Fenris,” he hears his name in a light and sleepy voice from behind him. The candle has long since burnt out, the light now from the rising sun. He turns to see Hawke lying on the couch, rubbing sleep from her eyes and smiling at him. She stretches out her hand, an invitation for him to approach.

“Hawke, did you-?” Did she hear him? Wait for him? “Did you sleep down here?” Her smile only grows and the hand that is extended waves impatiently. He takes it, and she immediately pulls him down onto the couch with her, their legs tangled together and his head on her chest. He feels a hand flutter in his hair, and she gives his skull a small scratch before beginning to smooth down his hair. His chest is tight, his limbs locked, unsure of what he should do. He settles for focusing on breathing, closing his eyes and enjoying the feeling of being held.

“That one sounded a little rougher than usual,” she says.

“I am… the idea of facing Danarius unnerves me,” he mumbles.

“It’s alright,” she whispers, “I have you. I’m here.” Her hand is still moving through his hair, humming quietly as she does. He keeps his eyes closed, listening to her heartbeat. The gentle sound of it, the never-ceasing rhythm. It’s such a soft thing that beats beneath her chest. How long had it been since he first set eyes on her? How simple it had all seemed. She was a witch, and he was… well, he was what he was.

His world was black and white. Witches and all their ilk were evil, and he the solution. Now everything was tempered with color. The gentle blue of her eyes when she looked at him. The red on her lips. The pink flush of her cheeks. Swirling greens and yellows when he thought of her, purples and oranges when he was with her. He falls asleep to the beat of her heart. He gets the best sleep he’s had in months.

“The Templars will be here shortly.” Hawke and Bodahn are whispering, her arm still draped around his shoulders. He can feel the sun warm on his back, his legs half covered by Hawke’s blanket. He keeps his arms tight around her. He’s loathe to wake from this, to open his eyes, to move from this spot.

“Thank you Bodahn. Will you draw a bath for me?”

“Of course.”

Her fingers drift over the edge of his ear, tuck hair behind it. He could fall back asleep easily. “I know you’re awake.” Fenris lifts his head, propped up by his elbows on the couch, and leans forward to kiss her. “Good morning,” she says with a smile.

“Good morning,” he tells her.

“I have to get ready,” she says. His head drops to her shoulder and she laughs when he grunts his disapproval. It takes them some time before they untangle from each other, Hawke lifting her hands above her head and stretching with a satisfied sigh. He stays sitting on the couch as she bends over, a hand on his face, and kisses his forehead.

She spends a long time soaking in the tub. Her hands sit on the edge, body submerged, keeping half her face in the water. She exhales, seeing the ripples move across the surface. Her hair swirls about her in dark tendrils. The ten of swords is floating in the middle. Hands slip into the water, move beneath the surface like sharks, tearing the card in two and throwing from the tub. The two pieces land with a wet flop upon the floor. She sits up, staring at the ink that’s disintegrating.

Hawke towels herself off quickly, weaving a simple spell to dry her hair. She twists and tugs, turns and ties, until her hair is pulled up on her head, ornate and beautiful. The corset is pulled tight and neat, her stockings perfect and her shoes laced. She’s wearing a dress of white, with a high lace collar that splays out at the very top. She wraps a dark ribbon around her neck, tying a simple bow. Her belt is dark, cinched tight, the gold buckle glittering. Only one thing left. She pulls the red across her lips and smiles. She makes a cutting and striking figure. She would show these Templars she was not afraid of them.

Fenris sits with her to wait in the living room, a large dark hat with a single white feather in her lap. She smiles when she sees him. He gently takes up her hand, holding it in his. It was fiddling with the feather on her hat, nervous and anxious, but now it holds tight to Fenris. He leans over to her, his forehead against her temple, and presses a gentle kiss to her cheek. She gives his hand a squeeze. She’s startled at the knock, head immediately turning to the door, watching as Bodahn opens it.

The Templar takes off his hat when he enters, giving Bodahn a courteous nod as he turns it in his hands, almost as if he’s more nervous than Hawke. He’s a well-built, well-meaning looking man with stubble on his face and blond curls. His clothes are neat and pressed, the flaming sword of the Templar order a golden pin on his vest. Bodahn shows him to the living room, where Hawke stands and smooths down her skirts. She smiles and extends her hand. “Good day serrah. I am Lady Hawke.”

“A pleasure, Lady Hawke. Knight-Captain Cullen, at your service,” he says as he takes her hand in a greeting shake. “I’ve heard much about you.”

“Nothing too terrible, I hope.”

“No ma’am. I’ve seen the bodies, I know you’re doing good work in the city. I believe you’re innocent,” Cullen tells her firmly. Hawke’s mouth gapes open for a moment, her eyes widening in surprise. She quickly turns it to a smile, even if her eyebrows remain raised.

“I never thought I’d see the day when I heard a Templar praising me. I appreciate the faith you have in me, Knight-Captain. I hope to prove it to you today.” Cullen nods.

“I look forward to it.” Fenris takes his place beside Hawke, his hand on the small of her back. She may have warmed to this Templar, but he is still wary. Cullen nods acknowledgment towards him, stretches out his hand. “You must be serrah Fenris.” Fenris stares at his hand for a moment before giving it a brief and curt shake.

“We’re to hunt three night-witches. Huon, in Lowtown. Evelina, in Darktown. Emile, in Hightown,” Cullen says, directing his words at Fenris. Fenris frowns, glares, a silent threat should harm come to his lover. Hawke steps forward, puts a hand on Fenris’s arm. She stands on her toes, presses a kiss to his cheek, her hand slipping into his.

“Be safe,” he tells her.

“Always,” she smiles.

* * *

Cullen walks beside her as they weave through busy shops and stalls, proprietors shouting and selling their wares. The grime hangs thick off the buildings of Lowtown. So close to foundries and the like, blackened brick and dirtied stone. “We are to speak with Huon’s wife, Nyssa. She operates a stall this way,” Cullen says, pointing the way forward. “She had spoken with Templars before, insisted that she had not seen him. We’ve received word that Huon spoke to her shortly after the Templars left.”

“She’ll be unwilling to speak to the Templars again,” Hawke says, “You’d best hide that pin of yours.” The Templars were poison to more than just witches. She expects resistance at her suggestion. Templars were always too proud of what they were. Instead, Cullen immediately unclips it, deposits it in his pockets. So he’s to take her lead in all things, it seems. She considers the fact that it could have been suggested to him to tell her that he finds her innocent. She tempers her goodwill towards Cullen with an edge of suspicion.

They turn one of the darker corners, slipping their way past toothless smiles and outstretched hands. Cullen dips down towards her, speaks in her ear. “On the left. Brown hair.” Nyssa is playing with her skirts, shoulders hunched as she stands beside her stall. She looks hopeful at all who pass, but is not as forceful as the others who ply their wares in Lowtown. Nyssa’s face brightens when Hawke and Cullen stand before her.

“G’day serrahs, might I –”

“Nyssa.” Hawke’s voice slices through her words. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Huon.” Nyssa’s expression changes instantly. Her face clouds, her lips curling downwards, and she takes a step backwards. Hawke draws a coin from her pocket, keeps it in the palm of her hand. Assured that Nyssa is watching, she makes it float, spin in the air, before it lands back in her palm. “I’m a friend, Nyssa. I’d like to help,” Hawke tells her gently.

Cullen stands silent a few steps behind her, his hat pulled down and his hands in his pockets. He wanders, but Hawke knows he is listening carefully. “The Templars came to find me,” Nyssa tells Hawke, an edge of urgency in her voice, “I told them the truth. I hadn’t seen Huon in ten years.” Her eyes shift, to the ground and full of guilt, before looking back at Hawke. “He came to me. After they left. He wanted me to hide him.”

“Did you?” If it’s possible, Nyssa fidgets even harder, practically tearing a hole in her apron. After a moment of quiet thought, she nods. Cullen steps back towards Hawke’s side.

“He’s different,” Nyssa blurts out, “I dreamed for so long – of him coming home – being free. B-but, he’s changed.” Hawke takes Nyssa’s hand, pulls it into hers. Nyssa’s hands are so small, so cold, her hands rough and well-worn. Hawke runs her thumb over her knuckles, willing warmth into her touch. Nyssa’s shaking slowly eases. “I can take you to him.” Hawke nods and immediately Nyssa moves into action.

She’s shoving hand-knitted things into a large case, locking up her stall. Cullen carries the case for Nyssa, as she leads them down a winding and broken street. The cobblestones are uneven, some missing, cracked and forgotten, as they head further down into the poorer sections of Lowtown. Suspicious eyes watch them as they pass, Hawke too bright a figure to ignore. Nyssa stops them in from of a small door. She pulls a key from her aprons, shoves it into the lock.

The door takes a few hard shoves to open, until it finally creaks open wide. Nyssa’s home is cramped and drafty, dark and shuttered. Cullen settles the case by her door, as she motions for the two of them to stay by the entrance. “Huon?” She calls it out cautiously. He’s on her before Hawke and Cullen can even move. He leaps out of dark corner, knife in hand, stabbing at her gut as they fall to the floor together.

“You brought the Templars here!” Huon shrieks as Hawke makes a startled yell, Cullen drawing the gun from his belt. He begins to move forward, arm raising, barrel pointing downwards at a blood-stained face, eyes wide with madness. Hawke sees it before he does.

“Cullen!” She calls, stopping him in his tracks as she throws up a barrier. Huon manipulates Nyssa’s blood, throwing it at them. It stops at the barrier, steaming and smoking, eating its way through Hawke’s magic. Huon shouts in frustration as he rises to his feet, the knife still in his hand. The blood follows him, a curtain of red that’s turning black, smoke rising from each drop. Cullen draws a vial from his belt.

He throws it deftly, the glass shattering before Huon’s feet. He begins to cough, and the blood in the air is slowly dropping to the ground. Huon presses hands to his throat, fingernails tearing into skin, gagging on whatever concoction was in the vial. In such a small space, Hawke feels it too. As though her insides are tearing themselves from the inside out, air suddenly being ripped away. The bitter taste of witchbane, the acrid smell of something fouler. She steps back, grasping for her magic and finding none.

“What did you do to me?” Huon demands. Bloody knife over bloody body, Nyssa’s eyes are still open, staring blankly at Hawke. The blood is pooling around her, fouled by Huon’s meddling. Cullen raises his gun once again. A point-blank shot as Huon rushes towards him, meaning to do more harm with his knife. A bloody hole in his forehead and _shot, shot, shot_ , three holes in his chest. Huon collapses to his knees, falls backwards, joins his wife in death. The knife clatters to wet floorboards.

Cullen places his gun back in his belt as Hawke moves forward. She kneels down by Nyssa, closes her eyes with two fingers. “I’ll send word to have the Templars by, to remove the bodies,” Cullen says from behind her. Hawke takes a deep shuddering breath as she rises to her feet, turns towards him.

“What was that?” Hawke asks, with an edge of demand, more than a question. “It wasn’t just witchbane.” Cullen faces her fury head-on, stands his ground.

“No. It wasn’t. What it was is classified, for Templars and those of the Chantry only,” he states rigidly. Hawke’s brows knit together, twist in fury and concern until she scoffs and shakes her head. She brushes down her skirts, squares her shoulders and keeps her head held high. Her hat cuts a deep shadow down one half of her face, the other glaring at Cullen. He looks away under the scrutiny of her gaze. The Templars were finding better weapons to kill what they claimed to protect. Hawke’s hands clench into fists.

“Onwards, to Darktown then,” Cullen says as he makes his way to the door. He marks the doorframe of Nyssa’s house in white chalk he takes from his pocket. He draws the flaming sword of the Templars. He marks it unsafe. He marks it cursed. The house will be cleared but it will remain forever empty. It will crumble into ruin, no future owners for it to be had. It will settle into dust, ashes and dirt, and the warning would remain.

Darktown feels emptier than Lowtown, but still presses down upon them. The creeping edge of malice on every corner with no place that could truly be considered a home. Small bolts in dirty streets, where people in tattered clothing, cheeks blackened and noses red with illness, glaring at those who pass them by. Outcasts here, Hawke and Cullen are marked by status, and carry the stench of Hightown with them.

Cullen leads her to a corner, where two orphaned boys sit against a wall. They rise to their feet as they approach, wary and distrustful. “We got nothin’ here you’d want. Get back to Hightown and leave us alone,” the taller boy says, hiding the other behind him. Hawke rises her hands, palms out and stops in her tracks.

“We mean you no harm. We’re looking for Evelina. Might you know where she is?” Hawke’s words are calm, but there’s an edge of urgency to her words, a press for information. The two boys exchange a look.

“More Templars,” the younger boy says, his hands winding into the others shirt, his face peeking out from behind him. Hawke crouches down, until she is level with him.

“I’m not a Templar. I’d like to help Evelina,” Hawke says. She locks eyes with the boy, a small smile on her face. He frowns and hides back behind the other.

“The Templars made her angry,” she hears. “She’s run to the tunnels to hide.” The older one turns, scoops up the boy in his arms, glares at Hawke as she rises to her feet.

“You can’t go there,” he says, “she’ll know we told you and she’ll – to us.” He scowls and shakes his head. Hawke reaches into her pocket, pulls out a small purse of coin. She reaches for the boys hand, presses the purse into his hand.

“Go. Find somewhere to eat, some new clothes, somewhere to stay that isn’t here. If you run into any trouble, go find Guard Captain Aveline. Tell her that Hawke sent you. Do you understand?” The boy clings to the purse, nods and quickly walks away from Hawke. The other boy, his head perched on his shoulder, waves to Hawke as they go. She gives him a small wave back.

“You shouldn’t have let them go. They could have had potentially valuable information about Evelina. And what of her location? The tunnels are… extensive,” Cullen starts protesting immediately. Hawke shakes her head and steps towards him, cocking her head.

“They’re children,” she states. “They deserve no part in this.” Cullen is starting to stay something else but Hawke’s lips thin and she raises her eyebrows. They stare at each other in silence for a few moments, before Cullen slowly nods. Hawke gives him a grateful nod in return, turns to begin walking towards one of the sewer covers. They lift it away together.

Cullen descends first, waits for Hawke. This is a cleaner part of the tunnels, with torches on the walls. It’s a home not just for hiding witches. Large groups of people with nowhere left to go hover around fires, dark circles under their eyes. Hawke looks at them, stitches her hands together. “This should be reported. These tunnels should be empty,” Cullen mutters under his breath.

“Oh? Will the Chantry be taking in those you remove? That’s the most charitable act they’ll be doing in years,” Hawke fires back. Whatever niceties Hawke might have afforded Cullen were erased with that vial he threw. Hawke stalks further inward, approaching those gathered at the flames. Cullen remains at the mouth of the tunnel, watching as she gives a kind smile to those she approaches.

She’s not afraid to touch, to talk with those who aid her. Cullen watches as she works her away around circles, person after person, winning their trust easily. It could almost be mistaken for magic. Cullen wasn’t informed of the exact accusation against Hawke. It was enough that the Knight-Commander thought it of dire need to bring in Hawke for questioning. It was Orsino’s intervention which stopped the trial.

Hawke gestures to him, calls him over, as she heads down one of the more winding paths. Water drips from the brick above into puddles below, the only noise save for the gentle hum of flickering torches, whose number grows thinner the further down they head. Eventually, another noise takes over. The humming of a woman, her voice echoing as she sings. Hawke casts Cullen a dark look, hurries in her footsteps.

Hawke pauses as she reaches one solitary wing. The singing woman is hunched in the corner, her knees at her chest and her hands linked over her head. She’s rocking back and forth as her voice warbles on high notes, shaking with her song. At the sound of their footsteps, she looks up. The color of her irises seem almost red, dark circles underneath, marks like scratches raked down her face. She shakes for a different reason when she sees them.

“Oh Evelina,” Hawke’s voice is low and mournful. “She’s given herself to the demon completely. She’s more abomination than anything else now.” Evelina rises to her feet, clinging to the wall for balance. Her limbs seem twisted and unfamiliar to her, and she snarls at the intruders. “If you’ve more of those vials, you’d best use one now.”

Cullen unclips it from his belt, throwing it with careful aim. Evelina raises her hand as if to catch it, but it shatters between her fingers. She roars with anger, moving forward, glass shards stabbing into her feet. She doesn’t seem to feel it as she staggers towards the two. Cullen unclips the gun from his belt as Hawke raises her hand, pushing lightly on Evelina, keeping her trapped in one spot. She makes it an easy shot for Cullen. Evelina falls with a screech, clawing at the bullet in her forehead. It takes her a few moments to realize she’s already dead.

They move quickly from there, escaping the stench of the sewers. Hawke adjusts her hat, hangs back as Cullen flags down a fellow Templar to talk to him. Hawke clenches her hand into a fist, stretches it back out. She had been far enough away from the vial’s foul contents this time to escape the effects. She closes her eyes, takes a steadying breath. They could render a witch defenseless, whenever they pleased now. Her time was growing short.

“The Templars have spoken with the de Launcets. They have seen their son, gave him money to help him escape. He’s been spotted spending said money in the Hanged Man, getting drunk,” Cullen says to Hawke as he rejoins her. Hawke opens her eyes, nods.

“Let’s get this done,” is all she says. They walk quickly to the Hanged Man. Their excursion has taken most of the day, the sun beginning to set on the horizon. No one pays attention to them when they enter the bar. Too involved in their drink, their drunkenness, the ability to lose themselves in detached glee. Hawke scans the room, finds a receding mop of red hair.

She makes her way towards him instantly, cutting a path through the crowd. Cullen follows in her wake. “Emile de Launcet,” she says. She knows his family, fellow members of Hightown. The family resemblance was unmistakable. Emile removes his face from the table as he wavers in his seat, frowning as his vision sways, gives Hawke a drunken grin. Hawke sits down at the table, across from Emile. Cullen stands by her side.

“You know,” Emile raises his eyebrows at Hawke, “some people say I am magic. I have dangerous magic. I bet you like danger, don’t you?” Hawke leans forward, grabbing at Emile’s tie, fixing him with a rigid stare. She tugs on the tie, slams his head against the table. He sputters back upwards in shock.

“We’ve killed two night-witches today,” she says in a low voice, “don’t make it three.” Emile blanches, pale right down to the roots of his hair, and Cullen watches as his adams-apple bobs nervously. Emile begins to stutter out apologies, explanations, words made of fear. Without looking away from him, she points at Cullen.

“This is a Templar. You’re going to go with him and explain the situation, you idiot, before you get yourself killed. Do you understand?” Emile nods wordlessly and Hawke breaks into a smile as she rises from her chair. “Good.” Cullen makes his way around the table, slipping a hand under Emile’s arm and pulling him to his feet. He struggles to stay on his feet as Cullen addresses Hawke.

“Thank you, my Lady. I’ll file my report with the Templars. You’re free to go,” he says, as he takes the pin from his pocket with his free hand, affixes it back to his jacket. Hawke stays at the table as they leave, sighs as she removes her hat and rubs her brow. She’s ready with a scowl when someone sits down beside her.

“You look like you need a drink.” Hawke immediately softens at his voice, smiles at Fenris.

“You followed us?” Fenris nods.

“I did not trust that Templar.” Hawke chuckles under her breath, reaches for him with her hand.

“Let’s take a walk,” she says quietly, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

* * *

Aveline doesn’t even blink when Isabela barges into her office. She has her legs crossed, her feet on her desk as she leans back in her chair. Isabela closes the door behind her, grinning as she pulls a bottle of gin from her bag. “Hello big girl. Bring out the glasses.” A smile crosses Aveline’s face, and she opens one drawer on her desk, pulling out two glasses. Kept there for the multiple sessions like this they’ve had before. She slides one across the table to Isabela and keeps the other one for herself. Isabela pours a generous serving for the both of them, and when she sits, she adds her feet to the desk.

They’re both quiet as they nurse their drinks, looking at the wall Aveline has compiled. Petty crimes like theft or break-ins, and larger ones like murder. Evidence linked to perpetrators, string tied between notes and pictures. At the center rests Danarius’s picture. “My girls tell me that the usual routes for the guards have been changed. Takes them right past Hawke’s mansion,” Isabela says finally, breaking the silence.

Aveline downs the rest of the gin in her glass, feet planting to the ground as she reaches for the bottle. She refills the glass, elbows on the desk as she leans over. “Can you honestly say you aren’t worried? A little extra security helps put me at ease.”

“Of course I’m worried. Why do you think I have my girls prying all the information they can out of the Templars that visit Siren’s Call?”

“I was talking about Danarius.”

“Hawke has gotten herself into something this time, hasn’t she?”

“Something is certainly one way to put it,” Aveline snorts. Isabela chuckles into her glass, free hand playing with her necklace. “I’ve never been so damnably _worried_. Never had a reason to before, even with everything.” Aveline sighs, leans back into the chair. “I’ve kept this city standing for years. Now it’s threatening to crumble because of vampires, witches and Templars. Fairytales.”

“If you ever need to work out some of that stress,” Isabela says slyly, “I’d be happy to give you the most wonderful massage.” Aveline throws back her head and laughs.

“Try that line on Merrill, it might work on her.” “I already know that it does,” Isabela winks. The two women laugh, refill their glasses and clink them together. “Cheers Ave.” There’s a sharp knock at the door, Aveline quickly hiding the gin and sitting up straight as the door begins to open. One of her officers leans into the room, keeping one hand on the doorknob and the other on the frame.

“The Templar has returned to the Circle, Captain, with one of the suspected night-witches. Lady Hawke and her companion are currently walking home,” the officer nods as Aveline thanks him, dismissing him with a wave.

“That’s that, at least,” Aveline sighs, “Hawke lives to see another day.” Isabela smirks, downs the rest of the gin in the glass.

* * *

Fenris and Hawke walk arm and arm down the docks. Always, the sound of gulls, the spray of water at the edge, the smell of saltwater and brine. “That vial, that thing that stopped magic. The Templars are finding new ways, easier ways, of killing us,” Hawke says quietly. Fenris can see her rolling through thought after thought, and keeps quiet. All he does is place his free hand over her hand, the one still holding tight to his arm. He can see her smile gratefully at the gesture under her hat.

“I understand the fear, I truly do. After Huon, and Evelina… poor Nyssa. I wish – I wish we could have kept her safe.” Hawke sighs.

“I know,” Fenris says. She squeezes his arm tightly as they walk, stepping even closer to him.

“Distract me,” she says.

“I hate fish,” Fenris says instantly, “fish, fish and more fish. Pfaugh!” His face wrinkles as they walk past a crate filled to the brim with them, his tone full of utter disgust. Hawke’s eyes widen until she breaks into a startled laugh. She hangs onto his arm as she laughs, drawing him into it. They don’t notice the sudden absence of gulls. The street lamps beginning to extinguish one by one. The shadows that grow darker, become an impenetrable wall. The red eyes that blink open all around them. They barely hear the footsteps and the sound of one approaching demon.

Danarius is grinning, his hands clasped behind his back, leaning forward. He brings with him a horde of thralls, practically crawling all over one another to be beside their master. Fenris goes cold. His lungs choke out the last of air, his stomach descending into a pit. He’s stiff, barely thinking, but he still throws out a hand in front of Hawke, keeping her behind him. He’s stepping backwards, Hawke’s hand on his back, until her heel reaches the very edge.

Water is lapping at the dock, the only sound above the clicking of teeth. The thralls are chattering, laughing, eager and ready. They’re breathing heavy, eyes wide and claws out. “Forgive me, but I’ve grown tired of waiting for your next move. I thought I might take my turn once again,” Danarius says, looking not at Fenris but at Hawke. Hawke still has her hand on Fenris’s back, the other on his arm, pressing it down so that she may stand beside him.

“That’s quite impolite of you,” Hawke says, as if she’s merely scolding someone who stepped on her toes during a dance. Danarius throws back his head and laughs. Fenris doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. His eyes are fixed on Danarius. Every part of him is screaming. He can’t move. His breaths are slow and shallow, sweat already on his brow. If not for Hawke’s steadying hand at his back, he’d be shaking. Here stands his master, come to collect him. He feels the bile in his throat when Danarius’s gaze turns to him.

“How could you care for her? Something as vile as a witch?” He’s heard those words before, from a different demon. Teeth on Hawke’s skin, blood on her neck, lilies on her tongue and pouring from her chest. _You belong to no one_. His jaw locks into place, his hands clenching into fists. “What a pretty face you’re making, my little wolf,” Danarius muses.

“Now,” he says, moving his hands to clap together before him, “you’ll both be coming with me.” The thralls begin to laugh louder amongst themselves at Danarius’s words. Sickly crawling creatures, on all fours, drooling with desire, eyes wide with lust. Prey, prey, prey. Hawke moves forward, a hand on Fenris’s neck. Her fingers find the chain of the locket, following it down, pulling it from his shirt. She holds it tight in her fist.

She’s not smiling when she looks at him. Her expression has gone cold. Her fist settles against his chest. He sees it all through a blur. He’s moving backwards, ground suddenly gone, and the chain of the locket breaking as he flies through the air over water. Danarius is scowling, the thralls moving forward to stand at the edge of the dock, surrounding Hawke. She holds the locket in her hands and does not look back at Fenris. She keeps her eyes on Danarius. Fenris lands far in the water, sinking down with shock before he is desperately paddling upwards.

He gasps when he breaks the surface, water in his ears and dripping down his face, soaked and cold to the bones. The waves are relentless, slamming into him as he tries to keep himself afloat. “Hawke!” He’s screaming, taking in salt water as he yells. He watches as Danarius walks towards her, extends his hand to Hawke. Linking her arm with his. “Hawke!” The thralls surround them as they begin to walk away from the docks, away from Fenris, leaving him treading water. “Hawke!” She doesn’t look back. She keeps her arm linked with Danarius. They leave as partners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)


	15. Beautiful Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “She went with him,” Fenris squeezes his eyes closed as he sits at the kitchen table, a towel over his head. “She didn’t even fight.”

“You’ve played the game so well,” Danarius says, patting her hand, “not even dear Fenris could see all the pieces you were moving.” He pauses, gives her a wicked grin. “You’ve made life quite difficult for me.”

Hawke raises her eyebrows, laughs under her breath. Every streetlamp they walk under flickers, dies for a moment, before springing back to life once they leave. They keep to the darker parts, shying away from all the light. People move to the other side of the street without seeing them, only sensing the cold. A chill that moves down their spine, warns danger ahead.

“As if you cannot say the same,” she says. A smile teeters on his lips. “I am curious to know. What did you give to the Templars to make them suspect me?” The thralls have begun to scatter, leaving Danarius and Hawke walking arm in arm.

“Why, I went all the way to Chateau Haine to fetch dear Prosper’s body. I collected it shortly after you left. It was no surprise that you went to him. Clever thing, that, seeking out my ally. I gave them the body and the guest list. They put the pieces together themselves.”

“I assume you were at Chateau Haine the same time we were,” Hawke says.

“Indeed. Sex in the library? Naughty girl,” he scolds. “A quick way to earn his forgiveness, I suppose.” He stops them in their tracks, steps towards her, presses her and boxes her in against a wall.

“Would you do the same for me? To earn my forgiveness?” He swoops forward, presses a tongue against her cheek, and drags it upwards. “You’ve kept Fenris from my grasp once again.” He makes a hard sound of disapproval with his tongue. Red eyes glitter in the dark, a hand rough on her chin, keeping her face pointed towards his. She smiles, laughs.

Her hands fist against the chest of his jacket, pull him close. She covers his mouth with hers, draws him into a deep kiss. When she pulls away, she brings his lip with her. She bites down hard and pulls, spitting out flesh and foul blood, wiping it from her lips. Danarius staggers backwards, his hands over his mouth. When he pulls them away, the wound is already starting to heal.

In Hawke’s hand, a form is beginning to take shape. A glowing sword, made of pure energy, bright and yellow, illuminating the street. It sparks against the cobblestones. She marches forward after him, the sword buzzing with her magic. She strikes quickly, slashes out, as Danarius deftly moves out the way. He moves faster than her eyes can follow, a shadowy blur on the edge of her vision. With her free hand, she lays down a circle of ice around her. He laughs, stops just outside of it.

“You think you can kill me on your own?” He circles her with his arms spread wide. “Do you care that much for him that you’d sacrifice yourself?”

“Yes,” she answers without hesitation. The locket sits heavy in her pocket. Danarius steps evenly onto the ice, bares his claws.

“I’m sure Fenris will come for his _amatus_ ,” he says as he advances.

* * *

Aveline has the glass paused on her lips. She sighs when she hears the shouting in the hallway, grabs the bottle of gin and places it on the floor beside her. Isabela has her head cocked, listening with a smirk as the commotion grows closer and closer to Aveline’s office. It’s not the person she expects who opens her door. Fenris slams it open, handle burying itself into the wall, as he marches forward, her officers yelling behind him.

He’s soaking wet, leaving a trail of water behind him. He’s breathing heavily as though he had run the entire way, the panic clear in every line of his face. “He’s taken Hawke.” Aveline snaps to her feet, dismisses her officers, slams the door closed. Isabela’s on her feet as well, leaving her glass on Aveline’s desk.

“What happened?” Aveline asks, as Fenris shakes his head, takes Aveline by the shoulders and practically shakes her. Isabela is moving around the desk, picking up the bottle of gin from the floor.

“Danarius _has_ her. We have to go now, we have to –” His words are desperate, teeth chattering from the wet and the cold. A drop of water falls from his hair onto his face, sliding down his cheek.

“You know where he’s taking her?” Aveline gently removes his hands from her shoulders.

“No, I – no. I don’t,” Fenris admits. Isabela holds out the bottle towards him. He stares at it for a moment before he takes it, downing large gulps. Aveline collects her shotgun from its rack, holds it in her arms.

“What we’re going to do is go to Hawke’s mansion and talk to Merrill. She might have some way to find them. Isabela is going to go get the others. That includes Sebastian. If Danarius has been talking to Templars to try and get her arrested, he might know something,” Aveline lays down orders quickly. Isabela is off with a wave and a nod.

“We’ll find her,” Aveline tells Fenris, giving him a smile, a hand on his arm. Bodahn is startled to see him, rushing immediately for towels, practically throwing them at Fenris. Merrill races down the stairs at the noise.

“She went with him,” Fenris squeezes his eyes closed as he sits at the kitchen table, a towel over his head. “She didn’t even fight.” Aveline sits beside him, the shotgun resting on her knees, a hand over her mouth and her elbow on the table. “He smiled at her and she…” He pulls the towel down, covers his face.

“Did she take the locket?” Merrill asks, standing beside Aveline, leaning against her chair. Fenris looks up at her words, his hand moving instinctively to where he knows the locket should be. “Yes.” The smile spreads across Merrill’s face, a determined, almost sinister, grin.

“Then we can find her. Hawke enchanted it so that we could locate it, wherever it was. She had a map for it,” Merrill says. Fenris and Aveline both follow her to the dining room, where Merrill is going through drawers, flicking through paper.

“She had me – she gave me that locket, and she -?” Fenris is trying to find the words. Wherever he went, she would know it. The way she went with Danarius. The fact she never told him about what the locket truly was. He pulls the towel from his shoulders, grips it in his hand. Merrill pulls a piece of parchment free from the drawer, flips the light-switch with a flick of her hand as she spreads the map on the table.

“Hawke was worried Danarius would try to steal you away. She wanted to keep you safe. There was nothing ill-wished behind it Fenris,” Merrill says sweetly. Merrill straightens her back, spreads her palms over the map. The parchment seems to bubble, small dots like water appearing upon it. All of them begin to slide towards one location.

Aveline leans over, eyes narrowing as she sees where they settle. The shotgun is still in her arms. “Get changed. Get your guns. Let’s go get Hawke,” she tells Fenris, steel in her voice.

* * *

Hawke comes to with a start and a cry of pain. She’s sitting in a chair, her legs tied to it, and one hand hangs free. The other has her palm flattened against a table, a rail spike through the middle. Emblazoned upon the end of the spike is the insignia of the Templars. She feels like she’s been doused in one of those vials, choking in her veins. She reaches for her magic, finds none.

She struggles to move her fingers, blood pooling around her hand. She uses the other to pull at the spike, hissing with pain as she attempts to free herself. The spike doesn’t move and she leans back in the chair with a grunt of frustration. Her hat is gone, her hair messy and hanging free about her face. Her coat is bloodstained, her skirts dirtied. The dress would never be white again.

She’s on a stage of sorts, the only part of the building that isn’t ruined. A bed, large and luxurious with sheets of red sits against a wall. Behind her is a tall and stately cabinet, filled with statues the like of which she’s never seen before. To the other side is a makeshift kitchen, complete with a sink and a bowl of fruit upon the counter. The table in which she sits rests in the center of the stage. A large chandelier of gold and glass hangs above her head, lightbulbs gently buzzing.

The rest of the room is cracked and broken floorboards, bricks of cracked black, a ceiling that threatens to cave in. She can see the moon shining shafts of light through the holes. Directly in front of her is a large metal door, painted black with edges of gold, a handle that shines. She reaches for the rail once again, desperately trying to pull it upwards.

“Now, now,” a voice that materializes from shadow, Danarius stepping forward, his hands clasped behind his back. “You’ll only hurt yourself if you do that.” He grins with pointed fangs. He pulls a chair out from the opposite side of the table, sits himself down. Hawke says nothing, only glares as she continues to pull at the spike. It never moves in the direction she wants. Instead, her fingers spasm with pain, the blood dripping down over the side of the table and onto her dress.

Danarius only smiles, one leg crossed over the other, his hands folded neatly on his lap. Hawke’s free hand is now slick with blood, as is the spike. She rubs her hand against her dress, leaves a smeared imprint of her palm. Instead of going back to the spike, she instead starts to drum her fingers against the table. One after the other, they come down hard, striking against the wood. She continues to glower at Danarius. He continues to smile. “Don’t be so cross, my dear. I simply didn’t want any misuse of magic in my home.”

“The sister you had Hadriana possess,” Hawke says, “it was for this, was it not?” She taps the head of the spike.

“Indeed. I know you’ve seen their vials, as well. You and your kind will be outmatched soon,” Danarius tells her. Hawke sighs, closes her eyes, and settles in the chair.

“Your kind will be close behind,” she says, opening her eyes slowly. Danarius chuckles softly.

“And all the others. Isn’t that sad? What a boring world. Their fear is pathetic.”

“Warranted.” She thinks of red eyes blinking in the dark, white hair creeping along the alleyways. The thralls that snarl, that bite, that claw. Danarius is laughing once again. He leans forward, a hand outstretched, his fingertips almost touching hers.

“What will you do? When the Templars come for you? Will you fight them Hawke? Will you give them their warranted fear? Or will you let yourself be snuffed away in the name of it?” He speaks quickly, in a low down, breathy and excited. She narrows her eyes.

“That implies you intend to let me live.”

“Don’t you want to?” Hawke only grunts in reply. Danarius leans back in his seat, that same smug smile upon his face once again. He shifts in the chair, looks towards the ruined ceiling, at the moon hanging high in the sky.

“How long do you think it will take them to find you? Or, at least, the locket?” Hawke’s back stiffens instantly. “How long do you think it will take them to realize they’re walking into a trap?”

* * *

Varric pulls at the reins, brings the cart to a halt. Aveline hops down from beside him. Anders, Merrill, Isabela and Isabela take their place beside her. Sebastian moves to Varric’s side. “You two stay with the horses. We might need a fast exit,” Aveline says. “Everyone else ready?” Isabela flashes her guns and a grin. Anders and Merrill share a look with each other. Aveline and Fenris lead the way towards the decrepit mansion.

The door is hung by only one remaining hinge, and it swings open at Fenris’s touch. He keeps his pistol in his hand as he moves forward, floorboards moaning underneath his weight. There’s an old grandfather clock in the corner, ticking with each slow second that passes. There are electric lightbulbs that flicker with the barest life, enough to cast dark shadows, blink light.

Aveline has her shotgun raised as she moves forward, Anders and Merrill behind her, Isabela bringing up the rear. They make their way through the house, find a ballroom. The windows are boarded, only some moon light coming between the cracks. It is drafty, it is dusty, and seemingly lifeless.

Fenris makes his way to the center of the room, where a sole table sits. Upon it is a locket, and a note. _My little wolf_. “This is a trap,” Fenris hisses, crumpling the parchment beneath his fists. The door slams shut heavy behind them. They turn, startled, and then hear the laughter from the ceiling, under their feet. The thralls begin to drop, to claw their way upwards, pushing back the floorboards. Aveline doesn’t hesitate. She begins firing immediately.

The floorboards move like branches underneath Merrill’s command, wrapping around thralls and dragging them back to the dirt. Anders is throwing fireball after fireball, keeping them away from Isabela who lines up her shots perfectly, making efficient use of every bullet. Fenris moves with reckless abandon, shot after shot, and striking red onto the thralls with the butt of his gun.

“There’s too many,” Anders calls, struggling to raise barriers in time as the thralls close in.

“You go through me before anyone else!” Aveline roars, blowing away a thrall that approaches Anders.

* * *

“Ah,” Danarius says, his eyes closed. “They’ve arrived. My thralls are upon them.” He snorts with laughter. “They’ve even brought the healer this time. The writer and the priest are with the horses. I’m sending some of my thralls to, hmm, _annihilate_ their escape.”

“The night-witch fights admirably, but she will tire soon. The healer does not have as much fight as you do, Hawke. His barriers will fall faster. His flame is weaker. The Guard Captain has a heavy weapon, one that is slow to reload. We’ll fell her first. The siren next,” Danarius continues.

“Don’t worry,” he tells her, “we’ll bring Fenris to you.” She can’t help the small noise of panic that escapes her. She forces her free hand into a fist, presses it against her thigh. Danarius smirks as he moves his chair, bends over to lean next to her. He kisses her softly on the cheek before kneeling on the floor before her.

“You can save them” he says, “join me.” She blinks, startled. “Your power. I have never seen the like, not in all the other witches I have encountered.” He closes his eyes, leans his head against her arm. The arm she cannot move, nailed so to the table. He kisses her from wrist to elbow, a hand slipping under her skirts, fingertips from ankle to knee. “You overpowered Hadriana without the aid of a demon.” He nips at her arm, his hand caressing the soft skin of her thigh.

“Together we will bring such change to the world. We will extinguish the Templars, create a safe haven for all the dark things such as thee and me. We could rule this city, rule countless cities together,” he looks at her, eyes glittering hungrily, like rubies under violent light. He tilts his face upwards towards her, his mouth upon her cheek.

“With you standing by my side, Fenris would join us. You can save them, save your lover, keep him safe, keep him with you,” Danarius tells her.

“He would never go back to you. Not even for me,” Hawke barks out the words. Danarius laughs as he reaches into his pocket. He holds a piece of parchment in front of her.

“Are you sure? I found this inside the locket.” _What are you writing?_ Hawke almost doesn’t want to look. _Not writing_. She reaches for the paper, holds it in her hand. _Ah! Artistry then_. Her hand shakes as she looks at it. _A poor attempt at it. I am – I am attempting to find something I am good at that isn’t killing_. Careful stokes, gently crafted with care. A portrait of her.

“What a lovely rendition of you. He is talented,” Danarius breathes in her ear. “To put it in the locket, keep it close to his heart… he certainly cares deeply for you.”

“He’d return to me, if it meant being by your side,” he rips the paper from her hand, puts it back in his pocket. “Make your choice Hawke.”

“I would rather die than deliver him to you,” Hawke says.

“Even knowing your friends will pay the price as well? How selfish of you.” She glares, spits upon his face. He strikes her hard, once, twice, three times across the face. She laughs as she licks the blood from her split lip.

“Don’t be mistaken: they _are_ paying the price. Ah, but perhaps friends are not enough. What would you give to have your family back?” Danarius murmurs, brushing a stray lock of hair behind Hawke’s ears. The door is creaking open. “What would you give to be with your sister again?” White hair, red eyes. The figure closes the door behind her, approaches the stage.

She’s not dressed in the rags of all the other thralls. Instead, she wears a dress that matches Hawke’s. White and clean, a belt of black, a gold buckle which shines. A high collar that flares at her neck, a dark ribbon around it, pulled into a simple bow. Her hair is pulled back, piled high. She places a hand on Danarius’s shoulder, her nails sharpened into points like claws. “Sister,” Bethany says.

“No,” is all Hawke can say, “no, no, no. You’re _dead_.” Standing in her nightgown, dog dying by her side, all the blood of Carver, the smaller pieces of Bethany.

“You did send me out to die,” Bethany says, “but Danarius saved me. If you stand with us, all will be forgiven. We can be a family again.”

“What will you do Hawke? If you kill me, your sister dies once again. If you join us, you can have her, have Fenris. Take back your family,” Danarius is whispering fiercely in her ear as Bethany moves around her, grabs a chair, sits on the other side. She takes Hawke’s free hand in her own, clasps it tight. Bethany’s skin is cold, but Hawke cannot find the strength to pull away.

“Please,” Hawke pleads weakly, “Beth.”

“I’m here,” Bethany smiles, teeth pointed like fangs. Red eyes glitter as she leans forward, presses a kiss to Hawke’s cheek. “Stay with me.”

“We have the Guard-Captain,” Danarius says, “the healer has collapsed. The night-witch is weakened. They are retreating but I have blocked their exit. The writer and the priest are trapped inside their carriage, their horses lie dead. Shall I kill them all?”

“No,” Hawke says, only looking at Bethany, “I’ll join you.”

* * *

Aveline pushes herself off of the floor, using her shotgun as a brace. There’s blood pouring from the side of her head, and her wrist is bent at an odd angle. “Why are they leaving?” Anders asks as he leans sits against the wall, breathing heavily, sweat beading on his brow, struggling to have his vision come back into focus. Merrill is kneeling by his side, her hand in his as she shakes with fear. Fenris has an arm around Isabela’s waist, keeping her standing.

The thralls are crawling back from whence they came, leaving their broken and bloodied brethren behind. They fade into dark corners, slip through the smallest cracks, and allows the door to open. One thrall stands waiting for them. He has his hands clasped behind his back, standing on two feet instead of crawling on all fours.

“The master extends an invitation to his wolf. He invites him to come and break bread, discuss terms of surrender. He and the Lady Hawke await your answer,” the thrall speaks carefully, cordially.

“We’re coming with you,” Isabela says, a hand pressed to her side.

“Yes,” Aveline says, snapping her wrist back into place with a shuddering hiss of pain, “we go together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)


	16. Sea of Voices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris storms forward, the others following in his wake. “Where is she?” His voice echoes through the hall, this stage of stages, and Danarius only smiles.

“He has accepted,” Danarius says to Hawke, “he’ll be here soon. Unfortunately, the others have insisted they accompany him.” Bethany stands behind Hawke’s chair, a brush in her hand, pulling it gently through her hair. She takes each strand lovingly, brushes it straight and neat. Danarius remains seated beside Hawke, but leans down to free her legs from their binding. The rope falls to her feet.

“The spike of silence will remain, for now. Until Fenris joins us,” Danarius says, wiping dirt and blood from her face with a clean cloth. He dabs at her split lit. She stares at him with hateful eyes.

“Yes,” is all Hawke says. Bethany sets the brush down on the table, begins to braid Hawke’s hair. She pulls back lock after lock, spinning them between pointed fingernails. She pulls a ribbon from her pocket, binds the end of the braid. She leans forward, her hands on Hawke’s shoulder, plants a soft kiss on her sister’s cheek.

“I love you,” she says. Hawke does not reply, but her fingers twitch at the words. The pain is dulled by time, she barely feels the spike anymore. Blood has dried to her hand, dried to the table, dried on the floorboards and on her dress. She closes her eyes, takes a stuttering breath. “I wish Carver, mother and father could be here with us.” Her claws bite into Hawke’s shoulders. Hawke’s eyes open, turn towards Danarius.

“The others,” Hawke says, “you’ll let them go free?”

“Of course. I will honor our deal,” he tells her smoothly. “As long as you honor your end.” Another spasm of her fingers. Bethany takes her seat beside her once again, taking Hawke’s free hand in her own. A cold that permeates through her touch. Hawke grasps at it, leans her head on Bethany’s shoulder, allows herself to be held. She closes her eyes, feels Bethany rubbing small circles on her back.

“Beth, I – Carver… I did something terrible,” Hawke murmurs.

“I know,” Bethany replies, “I understand. I forgive you.”

“What were we arguing about? That night?” Hawke asks.

“I can’t remember,” Bethany says.

“Neither can I.” A deep sigh escapes Hawke. Bethany’s thumb is brushing against her knuckles, circles of affection, a touch deeply personal and one Hawke recalls intimately. How many times had they sat together, hand in hand, Bethany’s fingers moving just so? She thought such things were gone forever. Here sat her sister, white and cold, red and dead, back from the grave and kissing her forehead. Fenris would have liked Beth and that she knows.

“Bethany’s magic faded after I saved her. Quite disappointing. After Hadriana’s death, she helpfully suggested you. She knew you would not forsake her,” Danarius says, putting a hand on Hawke’s knee. “You can rebuild the Hawke family.” His hand is moving upwards, rough against her thigh. His other hand moves to the bow at her collar, undoes it with deft fingers.

“We should get you changed, you don’t want Fenris to see you looking like this,” he murmurs. His hand moves to her belt buckle, pulls it loose. Bethany moves to the spike, pulls it from the table with inhuman strength. It remains in her hand. Hawke does not attempt to remove it. She’s steered away by her sister, leaving Danarius standing and smiling, looking at the mess on the table. She does not see him bend over, press his tongue to the blood.

He brushes a hand over his mouth, tidying it clean. He stretches his arms behind him, rolls his head from side to side. He waits in silence, the electricity upon the stage humming, trapped in bulbs. Moonlight streams through, shines bright. He drinks in the night, breathes it deeply. He closes his eyes, follows their progress through the eyes of the thrall leading them. Close, so close. He would have his wolf back. The grin flashes quick, glee spread deep in his chest.

The door creaks open, the thrall scurrying away as Fenris enters. He storms forward, the others following in his wake. “Where is she?” His voice echoes through the hall, this stage of stages, and Danarius only smiles.

“Do I not deserve a proper greeting? How rude. I’ve missed you, my little wolf. I’m so happy you’re coming home to me,” Danarius says, spreading his arms wide. Aveline has not brought her shotgun. Instead a sword, not unlike those used by the Templars, rests in her hand. Isabela holds her pistols high, Merrill and Anders behind her. Anders has healed what he can, and stands weaker than the rest. Drained.

“Why would I ever stay with you?” Fenris asks, pointing his pistol at Danarius. He only throws his head back and laughs. He extends his hand towards stage right. Bethany walks out first, leading Hawke behind her. She’s dressed in a dress of black, a long v-cut that bares her throat and chest. Red lines the middle of the corset, dressed with beads of black, puffed at the shoulder, short sleeves. The spike remains in her hand, drips fresh blood upon the floor. Her uninjured hand goes to Danarius, settles in his.

“Bethany,” Fenris hears from behind him. Anders, eyes wide and disbelieving. “She’s a thrall. Bethany’s his fucking _thrall_.” Hawke stands close to Danarius, expression blank, eyes towards the floor. Bethany remains at her other side, hands clasped behind her back.

“Hello Anders,” Bethany chirps cheerfully. “It’s good to see you again. You as well Aveline. Isabela. Merrill. I’ve not met you before Fenris, but from how much my sister cares for you, I feel like I know you already.” Fenris gives Bethany only the barest of glances. His eyes remain fixed on a Hawke who will not look at him.

“Hawke,” Fenris says, and she doesn’t move. “Hawke.” He extends his hand forward, begging her to reach for it as he approaches the stage. Danarius laughs, holds her hand tight, reaches for her face with his free hand. He tilts her face towards his, swallows her in a deep kiss. The braid shifts over her shoulder, falls down her back as her eyes close. “Hawke!”

Danarius pulls his face away from hers, but keeps his hand tight around her jaw. “Don’t you understand? She belongs to me now. Come home, Fenris, and you can stay with her. She loves you ever so dearly.”

“We’ll be in-laws,” Bethany laughs. “Doesn’t that sound nice?”

“Hawke. She is a thrall. She’s not your sister any longer,” as Fenris speaks, he walks ever closer to the stage. Sufficient space between them now, the thralls emerge, separate Fenris from the others. He whirls at Aveline’s shout, at the flash of metal as she raises her blade. The thralls do not attack, simply surround, and push them back towards the door.

“Hawke has made a generous bargain for your safety. You should leave, while you still can,” Danarius calls out to the others. The thralls, snapping and spitting, herding them towards the door.

“We can fight him. We can kill him. Hawke!” Fenris climbs the stage, begins to approach her. Bethany clings close to her, a nose at her cheek, whispering in Hawke’s ear. Hawke listens carefully, the corners of her lips curling downwards. Danarius has his hand on her cheek, slipping down her throat, licking his lips. Like predators on prey, Bethany and Danarius hold Hawke in their grasp.

Her head tilts, turns, and faces Fenris. Her eyes meet his. Red-rimmed. Defeated blue. She stretches out her arms towards him, palm dripping blood. “Fenris,” she greets in a low voice, “come to me.”

_We had a deal. She promised! She promised me she would stand by my side! She is betrayer, deceiver, traitorous bitch! Her words, her promises, they mean nothing to her. What makes you think she’ll honor the promise she made to you? You find Danarius and she’s more like to stand by his side than yours. She’d turn you over, pup._

Fenris recoils, steps away from her. He’d thought all the demon said to him were lies. “Fenris,” she says again, tears dripping silently from her eyes. She watches him as his face falls, a grimace in his mouth, and pain in his eyes. “I need you. Please.” Her hands are wavering in the air, reaching towards him. “Join us, beloved.” _Amatus_. The hurt stings keenly in his chest.

“I will not join you and neither shall Hawke,” Fenris says, shaking his head. Danarius moves behind Hawke, a hand still caressing her throat. He leans close to her, baring his fangs, brings them closer to her neck.

“She’s already mine,” he says. Fenris stands before her, before Danarius, before Bethany. He looks only at Hawke. His eyes always change first. Such lush green, giving way to vicious yellow. He falls to his knees before her as the change takes hold, pointed ears and pointed teeth, claws that dig into the floorboards.

When he stands again, all white fur and rage, he roars at Danarius. He doesn’t flinch. The wolf turns, bounds towards the others, burying his teeth around a soft neck. He picks up a thrall by the feet, swings it round, and brings it crashing down against the floor. Danarius laughs, and all at once the thralls begin to move. Hawke whirls towards him. “You said you would let them go,” she says.

“I thought your presence would tame him. It did not. So, we try this instead,” Danarius tells her.

Fenris roars, thralls on his back, Merrill frantically trying to pull them off with her branches. Danarius walks forward, a smile on his face. A smile that spreads further than it should, showing pointed fang and glittering tooth, a laughter that hides behind it. Anders is slumped against a wall, his hands barely raised, barely conscious, trying to protect even now. Aveline and Isabela are doing what they can to keep the others safe, but there are so many, and it is only a matter of time.

Danarius is on the very edge of the stage, his hands clasped behind the back. He is laughing at their fight, at their struggle, at the wolf who howls. Hawke stays rooted behind him, a hand reaching for the spike embedded in the other. Her footsteps are light, she walks as though she’s in a trance. Blood burns fresh from the hole through her hand. Bethany cocks her head, looks at her sister, and moves too late.

Hawke raises the spike in her uninjured hand, brings it down screaming into Danarius’s neck. Through artery and flesh, smoke and shadow, it brings forth foul blood at the same time. Again and again, with fury unbridled. “You think I would let you?” She yells as Danarius presses against her shoulders. It’s not him that pushes her away, but Bethany’s fist wrapping around her braid, dragging her away by her hair. The spike falls from blood slick hands, lands on the floor. Hawke is still yelling as she’s dragged away.

“You think I’d show my belly for you? I’d’ve murdered you while you slept, cut off your hea–” she stops mid-word, mid-fight, suddenly blank. Her head rolls, caught in Bethany’s grasp. Until it is not. A hand that clamps around Bethany’s wrist, burning in her palms, forcing Bethany away. Teeth that click, grit together, jaw that settles.

“You seek to take her for yourself? She is already mine,” Hawke says, rising to her feet, eyes closed, running her hands from hip to breast. Fingers thread through hair as the braid falls apart at her touch. She growls, a deep hum, lurking in her throat. Hands at her neck, fingers digging into flesh, arms wrapping around herself. When her eyes open, they are blackened like coal.

Danarius grins, face cracking, revealing teeth upon teeth upon teeth. He has a hand to his neck, blood like oil slipping through fingers, smoking in the open air. A fatal wound for any other. An inconvenience for him. “So you are the power that stands behind her veil,” he worships. The demon watches him with a bored expression, plays with the beads at the bottom of the corset. Bethany moves to approach, claws extended. With a flick of her head, the demon sends her flying.

“You,” she says, “are an obstacle. You,” she walks forward, “will stand in my way. You,” she stands above him, “must be eliminated.” The shadow slithers from the stage, away from Hawke’s grasp. She snorts amusement at his cowardice, focuses her attentions on the thralls before her. With a wave of her hand, the clenching of her fist, they erupt into blood and bone.

Confused, they scatter, seek out their master. They draw her attention to the shadow lurking in the corner. A frown that knits, a corner that explodes in light. Danarius screeches out, leaping for her. He’s intercepted by the wolf. Fenris catches him by the feet, drags him to the floor. Hawke is squeezing pressure upon him, eyes shining darkly, a grin that curls upwards as her hand shakes. The demon sighs contentment. Such freedom. Such glory. Such violence.

Danarius, weakened and wounded, loses control. Thralls go feral, their masters grip upon them loosened. It gives Aveline the opening she needs to slash forward, pressing her blade into vital organs, spilling blood. Thralls are screaming, holding their skulls, limping away. Merrill curls wood around their legs, Isabela reloads her pistols and fires. Fenris keeps Danarius pinned, even as the vampire snarls in frustration.

The demon tilts eyes towards the heavens. The moon shines ever so brightly, even as it wanes. There will be sunlight soon. She smiles sweetly at it, all the stars, all the black that’s fading into morning. She presses her hands against her chest, cold fingers upon bare skin, hums as she sways back and forth. Smile, smile, smile. So many places to go, to see, to touch and feel. So many things to – claws on her shoulder, a hand that rips its way from back to belly. Hawke looks down, sees a hand protruding.

The demon flees screaming, lets another die in its place. The black fades from her eyes, pained blue reappearing. Bethany hisses, spit like acid dripping from fangs. She pulls back her hand, sticky with her sister’s blood. Hawke falls to her knees, pressing hands against her stomach.

Danarius is staggering on the battlefield, battered by the werewolf. He’s only just able to step out of a swipe of Fenris’s claws, back out of the range of the snap of his jaw. Danarius raises his arm as Fenris swipes again, finds flesh this time. More control is stolen from him and Bethany hisses, clutches her head. She and Hawke sink to the floor side, by side. She watches as Bethany writhes, screams. Aveline and Isabela are making quick work of the confused thralls, while Merrill helps Anders to his feet.

“I’m sorry Beth,” Hawke tells the thrall who can’t hear her, “but you died with Carver.”

Danarius corners Fenris, picks him up bodily, and throws the werewolf across the room. Fenris slams against an unsteady wall, breaking brick and cracking wood. The blood is still pouring from Danarius’s neck, smoking and black, his eyes glowing red with anger. He races towards Fenris with blinding speed, claws finding fur, finding flesh, burying themselves into whatever he can find.

Aveline finds Isabela, and the two women nod at each other wordlessly. Isabela goes to the side of Merrill, who is raising wood and root to keep herself and Anders safe. They stand beside each other, pull the thralls towards them. Aveline goes to where Fenris is snarling, reaching out and finding wisps of shadow, unable to grab hold of Danarius.

She finds him as he steps out of reach of Fenris’s claws. She stabs her silver sword into his leg, causing him to falter and kneel. He swipes at her, finds an injured wrist, forces her back. Danarius turns his attention back towards Fenris, catching wrists in his hands. “I know you understand me wolf,” Danarius hisses, “you waste time with me while your Hawke dies.” The wolf flicks his head towards the stage.

Hawke keeps one hand uselessly over her middle. With the other, she reaches for Bethany. Her fingers barely move, hand numb, a hole that matches her belly. “I can save her,” Danarius says, “not a thrall. I can make her a vampire. She’d be free and she’d be alive.” Fenris returns to Danarius what was done to him. He swats him away like a gnat, sending him flying, as he turns to the stage.

Hawke tilts her head as the shadow looms over her. Bethany, thrall, thrall, _thrall_ , shrieks and screeches, looking to kill. Fenris keeps her pinned to the floor with one mighty paw. Hawke reaches upwards, finds soft fur. He presses at her cheek with his snout, whines at the stench of iron that lingers about her. “I’m sorry Fen,” she murmurs, “please don’t… don’t let him touch me.” A huff of warm breath on her face. When Fenris goes back to Danarius, he brings Bethany with him.

He breaks her, tosses her like a ragdoll at Danarius’s feet. The vampire shakes his head with a laugh. “A disappointing answer,” he says. Merrill is half dragging Anders towards the stage, Aveline and Isabela covering them as they cross the room. What was once a horde is now a squabbling group of thralls, Danarius’s army finally exhausted.

Danarius and Fenris lock claws, Fenris snapping and spitting at him. Weakened by Hawke, crippled by Aveline, the vampire is defensive, seeks to run. Fenris’s claws draw blood as they dig into flesh, keeping him in place. Anders kneels beside Hawke, his hands on her cheeks, tilting her face towards him. She protests weakly at the touch, blue eyes muddied and clouded. “Fenris, I –” she starts.

“It’s me Hawke,” Anders corrects her gently, “It’s Anders.”

“Fenris.” Her uninjured hand winds in his vest, pulls him close. “I need to tell you, I need you to _know_.” Anders takes her hand from his vest, holds it in his.

“Quiet Hawke, you can tell him yourself later,” he begs.

“I wanted to keep them safe,” she moans. “He said he would let them go if I stayed.” Blood spills between Anders’s fingers. “I thought we could – take him ourselves. Unaware. Maker, Fenris, it hurts so much.”

“I need you to know,” she gasps, pulls at Anders “Meeting you was the most important thing that ever happened to me, Fenris.” Merrill has one hand on Anders’s back, feeding him her magic, while the other covers her eyes, holds back the flood of tears. Anders is pouring everything he can into Hawke, even as she blinks without understanding, until she can no longer keep her eyes open. Her hand goes limp in Anders’s. Her head tilts lifelessly to the side.

Danarius, backed into a corner, snarls at the approaching wolf. “You will obey me! I am your _master_!” It only serves to make Fenris angrier. He grabs him by the neck, nails pressing into the open wound. He reaches with the other, claws biting into the skin on Danarius’s jaw. The vampire is screaming, ripping at Fenris’s wrists, feet dangling off the ground. He tears Danarius’s head clean from his body. The body twitches in Fenris’s grasp, unable to come to terms with its death. It twists and burns, folding in on itself same as Prosper’s had done. Where Danarius once stood, there is now only a blackened husk.

The remaining thralls call out all at once, screaming to the heavens, before joining their master in death. They burn as much as he does, become ashes. Bethany is swept away into cracks, along with the rest of them. The moonlight still shines above, through the cracks of the ceiling as pointed claws drop to the floor. Teeth soon join them. Fur trails behind him as Fenris limps towards the stage.

Both Aveline and Isabela intercept him, blocking Hawke from view. “Fenris,” Aveline says, putting her hand on his shoulder, “maybe you should stay here.”

“Anders is still…” Isabela glances over, squeezes her eyes shut, and shakes her head. Fenris’s hair is wild, and he wipes blood from his mouth with his arm. His clothes are tattered and ruined, barely hanging onto him.

“I need to see Hawke,” he says, beginning to push forward. Aveline puts her other hand on his shoulder, pushes back.

“Fenris…”

“Don’t-!” It starts as a shout, until he moves back to calm words. “Don’t keep me from her,” he begs. Aveline looks at him, long and hard, until her eyes shift to the ground. Her arms fall to her side. Fenris’s steps are small and hesitant, dropping to his knees beside Anders. Anders looks at him wearily, moves out of the way.

Fenris reaches out, shaking hands on Hawke’s shoulder, pulling her towards him. “No, no, no,” he moans, rocking back and forth with Hawke in his arms. “I can’t, I can’t – I can’t bear the thought of living without you.” He presses his forehead against Hawke’s. “ _Please_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)


	17. In Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders had put a hand on his shoulder. “She said something to me, before. Something that was meant for you.”

The clock ticks on the mantle. Each quiet second, a harder minute. It beats in time with the roar of the flames below it, casting gentle light, gentler warmth. Fenris sits on the couch, his elbow on the armrest, resting his chin against his hand. He stares blankly into the fire, thoughts elsewhere. He sighs when the clock chimes the hour, pushes himself up from where he’s sitting. He makes his way towards the kitchen, finds a tray underneath one of the cupboards.

Bodahn packs a plate with eggs, bacon, and toast. He places a steaming cup of tea in the right corner, the plate at the very center. Fenris is careful as he lifts it, keeps it balanced in his grasp. He takes each step slowly, keeping an eye on the swirling liquid in the cup. The door is half open already, easy to push it fully out of the way. He settles the tray on one side of the bed, makes his way round to the other.

He brushes hair back from her forehead, bends over to plant a kiss at the very center. Hawke opens her eyes slowly, smiles when she sees him. “Good morning,” she murmurs.

“Afternoon,” he corrects as he sits on the edge of the bed. She winces as she moves to sit up, a bandaged hand pressing against her stomach. Fenris frowns as he pulls back the bedsheets, lifts up her shirt. She sits patiently while he pokes and prods at the bandages around her belly. Too long had he checked on her to find them soaked with blood. Today they remain dry, white and clean. Hawke places a hand over his, smiles gently.

“I’m alright Fen,” she tells him softly.

Pale, clammy and cold, Anders had exhausted himself pouring everything he had into her. Merrill had as well, all the power she could summon, all to save Hawke. Fenris could only watch from the corner of the room as they worked, day after day, night after night. Hours of magic and hours of stitching. Blood soaked water and blood soaked cloths. Bandage after bandage after bandage. He thought she might never wake again.

He spent every night by her side, one hand in hers, listening to her breathe. All the labored wheezing of the first few days, to all the little whimpers of pain. He watched the rise and fall of her chest, and did not sleep. Anders had put a hand on his shoulder. “She said something to me, before. Something that was meant for you.” Anders went home, after that. Merrill goes with Isabela.

She had cried when she woke. Cried from the pain, cried from the sight of him. She had stretched out her arms towards him and he was powerless to resist. A kiss, messy with desperation and relief. They had spoken to each other long into the night, whispers of reassurance, of affection. Another examination by Anders, a confirmation that she was alright.

Now he brings her breakfast, checks on the bandages. “You have to eat,” Fenris says, reaching over her, gesturing towards the plate. She obliges him as he watches her pick at bacon, eat toast, and sip at the tea. Afterwards, she spreads her hands, raises an eyebrow in question of his satisfaction. He picks up the tray, settles it on the floor. He is quick to remove his shoes as he slips into the bed with her.

She lies on her side, her head on his arm, Fenris ever so warm at her back. He brushes hair away from her face, tucks it behind her ear. He keeps his arms tight around her as they spoon, Hawke closing her eyes contently. “Fenris I – I need to apologize,” she says after a few moments of silence.

“For what?” His thumb is moving in soft circles upon her arm, his eyes closed with his head against hers.

“For giving you reason to doubt me,” she says. “For making you think I would ever try to…” She sighs deeply, and it shudders almost like a sob. She asks her beloved to come to her side and green eyes go sad, face turning in disbelief. _Betrayal_.

“I understand. Anders told me what you said.”

“What I said?” Brows knit as she frowns, raking her memory for any words spoken to Anders.

“You believed you were speaking to me. You explained the situation. You – ah – spoke of my importance to you,” he says quietly.

“You forgive me then?”

“Yes,” Fenris says, “yes, I forgive you.” He holds her a little tighter. He should not have doubted her in the first place. This was Hawke, and Hawke always had a plan. One that would never involve handing him over to their enemy. They spend long moments together, his thumb still moving in circles, until they drift into sleep together. Days are spent like that, making sure Hawke is eating, making sure Hawke is sleeping.

“If I’m stuck in this room one more minute, I shall go mad,” Hawke declares, beginning to pull back the blankets. Fenris had been leaving the room, but he’s quick back to her side, pulling the blankets back up, keeping a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“You need your rest,” Fenris says, and Hawke crosses her arms and pouts like a child. The instant his back is turned again, she’s slipping feet out of the blankets. She does her best not to wince, not to make a sound, even has she’s pressing a hand to her belly, struggling to stand. It aches to straighten her back, burns to breathe. She stands anyway.

He has his hands on the doorknob when he hears her. That first step, the creak of a bed that suddenly lacks weight. Fenris turns, presses a hand to his forehead and lets out a ragged sigh. “Help me bathe,” she says, a steadying hand on the bed as she walks round it, bare feet padding against wood floors.

“I am not helping you do anything, you need to stay in bed,” he says. She looks at him, shrugs, and continues to make her way to the bathroom. “ _Venhedis_.” She flashes him a grin at his frustration. He quickly chases after her, offering his arm to keep her steady.

She cannot raise her arms completely; it hurts too much. He pulls the shirt over her head as best he can so that she does not have to move. She’s already pressing fingers against bandages, unwrapping them as he kneels down and slips off what could barely be called pants. She stands before the mirror, runs a hand over her belly.

A grotesque and screaming red wound, like fire, barely closed. She turns, sees a twin mark upon her back. It would scar darkly, an everlasting reminder. Fenris stands behind her, a hand slipping around her waist, covering the mark ever so lightly. “An ugly thing, isn’t it?” She laughs. He brushes back hair from her neck, presses a kiss to newly exposed skin.

“You are beautiful Hawke,” he tells her. The barest of smiles, a brush of her hand over his. He removes the bandage on her hand for her. She frowns at it. The wound has healed, yes, but healed dead and blistering, a sickly stain in her skin. Dark lines like veins move away from it, curl around the rest of her hand, and she cannot quite move her fingers.

“Anders says movement will return as you practice,” Fenris tells her softly, “but whatever mixture was on the spike did such things to you. It was lucky it did not spread further.”

“The Templars creation. They seek to tame us all. Snuff the magic from us, even if it kills us,” Hawke says bitterly. Fenris closes his hand over hers as her back leans against his chest. He holds her tight, presses a kiss to her hair. He would not let them touch her.

He half lifts her into the bath. She sinks into it gratefully, hands clutching the sides of the tub. He helps to wet her hair, rub soap into it. She murmurs grateful pleasure at the hands that massage into her scalp. “You make a good nurse,” she says. Fenris only grunts at that.

He helps her into a simpler dress, one that does not require a corset. Black, loosely belted so that it does not press against the wound, with lace around her chest and sleeves. She sits patiently while Fenris does her hair for her, feeling deeply inexperienced in such matters. It is not coiffed, it is not wound and bound, and instead he pulls it back into a simple bun at the back of her head. “Perfect,” she says, as he helps her to her feet.

She wears a long jacket at his instance, god forbid she hurts herself shivering. Anders would likely hang him if her wound re-opened. He finds the flattest shoes for her as he will not accept heels. “Acceptable?” she asks, turning in place for his inspection. He smiles at her playful display, gives his approval. She takes his arm as they walk down the stairs slowly.

“There’s somewhere I’d like to go, if you’ll indulge me,” she says.

“I suspect I have no choice.” At that, she laughs. A familiar weight against him, her arm linked through his, her body pressed closely to him as they make their way through the crowd. She leads him to a quaint outdoor café, tucked away in one of the corners of Hightown. He pulls out her chair for her.

She orders coffee for the both of them, small chocolate cakes. “I’ve been craving this,” she says as they’re presented with the cakes, and small delicate silver forks. He chuckles at her expression when she takes a bite, and the exaggerated groan she makes. He has to admit that the cakes are quite good, and takes each bite happily.

“I’ve seen,” she admits, “what was in the locket.” She brushes at the crumbs at the corner of her mouth, plays with the napkin in her lap.

“Ah,” he never meant for her to see that. He never meant for a lot of things. He still has her photograph, although it no longer sits on his bedside table. He keeps it in the breast pocket of his vest. She reaches out, careful fingers at his hand.

“You’re truly free now, with Danarius gone. There’s nothing to hold you back. You could go anywhere you wish,” she says.

“I could,” he tells her, his fingers moving against hers, winding them together.

“Is there any place you’d like to go? Like to see?”

“I’d remain with you, if you’d have me.” She smiles, squeezes his hand.

“Always.” They sip at their coffee, watch the denizens of Hightown as they walk past. A crowd of strangers, unaware that their nights have become safer. Unaware that there is no longer a nameless menace stalking their streets. Unaware of the sacrifices made in their name.

“Perhaps I’ll take you to Ferelden,” Hawke says. “Show you Lothering. It’s no city like this, but it still feels like home to me.”

“I’d like that,” he smiles. They link arms again as they walk. They pass a flower shop and Hawke is tugging on his arm, pulling him back as she peers inside wistfully.

“I have been meaning to repair the garden,” she says. He steers her inside, and the shop keep smiles with recognition when he sees Fenris.

“Roses this time?” He asks, and Fenris nods. Hawke looks highly amused at the exchange between the two. She has not forgotten his previous bouquet. They leave the shop with roses in Hawke’s other arm and a promise that they will return for seeds in the spring. They’re slow to return to the estate, taking every winding street. It’s only when Hawke begins to sniffle, her nose and cheeks red with cold that Fenris insists they go back.

He helps her up the stairs, laughing as she complains with every step. “I feel like a grandmother,” she says, her shoulders hunched and a hand pressed to her belly, the other in Fenris’s hand. Back in her room, she presses her hands against her cheeks, willing warmth back into her face. He pulls off his jacket, rests it on her dresser. She turns to him slowly, her hands now bunched at her skirts.

“Fenris, I – will you please-?” She takes one of his hands, presses it to her chest.

“Are you sure?” He asks.

“I can still feel _his_ hands on me,” she tells him, a frown knitting at her brows. “I want to feel you.”

Hands warm on her cheeks, cupping her face, and Hawke seems to sink into the touch. She sighs peacefully, closes her eyes. His thumbs brush against her cheekbones and he studies every freckle. Each and every one he loves, along with the laugh lines around her mouth, the smile that curls at her eyes. A simple thing, to undo the bun, love the hair that relaxes against her shoulders. She looks up at him, that bright blue, a hand moving to his. Her thumb over his knuckles.

Their noses brush against each other as he moves closer. White hair mixes with black. A kiss that presses ever so lightly, gentle against her lips. It’s a question, one she answers by deepening the kiss. She returns it fiercely, achingly, one hand fisted into the back of his shirt. They remove the dress as carefully as they had put it on. Fenris kneels down before her, helps slip the shoes from her feet.

His hands around her ankle, a kiss to her knee and ever upwards. She looks at him with a blush on her cheeks, runs her fingers through his hair. Hands that travel from thigh to shoulder, feeling every part of her and loving every second. A hand at his neck, fingers playing with the wisps of hair she finds there, pulling him back down to her mouth.

He moves her back towards the bed, helps to lift her upon it. He sheds his own clothes as he goes, barely willing to take his touch from her. She traces the lines at his mouth, down his chin, over his throat. He settles between her legs, careful not to put his weight over her wound. An elbow that presses into the mattress, his forehead pressing against hers. His other hand is still moving, underneath the thigh of her bent leg, over her hips, feeling her ribs.

Her mouth tilts upwards, plants a kiss. She’s so bright, it’s almost blinding. He almost loses himself from the love of her. Light taps on his back, fingers brushing over his shoulders. A mouth that’s wet and warm, tasting of chocolate. He cannot bear to close his eyes, to look away from her. He keeps a kiss to her forehead as he moves inside of her, listening to her gasp, those light taps on his back becoming harder, palms pressed against him.

“You frightened me,” he murmurs against her ear, “I thought I’d lost you.”

“Never,” she breathes.

“Do not do that again,” he scolds, and she shakes with laughter, caught so in his arms. They take their time with it, seeking long kisses, slow movements. Ceaseless touching, hands that travel the length of them, rediscovering every bump, every scar, every mark and every inch. They rock slowly together, Fenris brushing the hair from her forehead, treasuring the red that blossoms on her cheeks. The small mewling sounds she makes. The way she presses her mouth against his shoulder, breathes against him.

“I am yours,” he tells her as his voice breaks, as she holds tighter to him, reaching for a desperate kiss. She holds his face in her hands, light and shaking, unwilling to let him go.

“Fenris,” she breathes as he shudders out the last moments of his hips moving against hers. He lets his weight down slightly, breathing heavily as he rests against her. She threads fingers through his hair, presses a kiss to the top of his head. “I love you.” He finds her hand with his, holds it tight as they drink in each other.

They have a few moments of silence before it starts. The door slams open and they can hear Bodahn’s voice getting louder and louder. “You can’t go up there! You don’t have the right!” Bodahn’s shouting voice, blistering angry in a way they had never heard before. “Excuse me sirs! You cannot-!” They can hear heavy footsteps on the stairs, an abrupt retort to Bodahn’s yelling. It’s Fenris who moves first. He quickly pulls on his trousers, then reaches for her. He lifts her up in his arms, carries her to the bathroom.

He sets her on the counter, a thumb brushing over her lips. “Stay here,” he tells her, and shuts the door behind him when he leaves. He scoops up all of Hawke’s discarded clothes, quickly shoves them underneath the bed. When the door opens, the Templars find only Fenris in just his trousers, his hands in fists, glowering at them. He hears other doors opening and closing, looking for Hawke and not finding her. It’s a small blessing that Merrill is staying with Isabela.

“What do you want?” He demands. A single Templar pushes his way to the front. Cullen.

“Serah Fenris. We seek the Lady Hawke,” Cullen says, a hand over the hilt of the sword attached to his belt. The Templar insignia shines bright on his vest.

“She’s not here,” Fenris says immediately. Cullen’s eyes narrow.

“We know that she is,” Cullen says, “we’ve been watching the mansion. The two of you recently returned here together. It’s of great importance that she come with us.” Fenris marches forward, his hands fisting into Cullen’s jacket, practically lifting him off the ground.

“She’s not going anywhere with you,” he snarls as the other Templars draw their swords, keeping them level with Fenris’s neck.

“Fenris,” the door opens quietly. Hawke stands in her nightgown, a robe tight around her. She makes her way to his side, a hand on his arm. He drops Cullen instantly. “What can I do for you?” That question she addresses to the Templars.

“You’re under arrest, my lady. You must come with us for an immediate trial,” Cullen answers her.

“Surely you’ll allow me to get dressed first?” Hawke smiles. “I’ll not resist.” Cullen thinks for a moment, and then nods. The Templars file out the door, close it behind them. Fenris knows as well as Hawke that they stand just outside.

“You cannot go with them,” Fenris whispers urgently, “we’ll leave, right now, we can –”

“Fen,” she silences him with a word. “Can you help me with the dress?” He does her hair for her again, that same messy bun. She smooths down her skirts, tugs on her jacket. There’s a rose nestled in the front pocket. She takes his hands in his.

“Find Varric and Aveline. They’ll know what to do,” she says. She stands on her toes, presses a kiss to his cheek. She opens the door. She goes with the Templars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearing the end, nutty! Hope you guys have an awesome New Year! (death to 2016 amiright). New chapter will be posted on the 2nd <3 You can always find me at [ my tumblr](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)


	18. The Whirling Infinite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you suggesting that the Templars are deliberately ignoring these threats?” Meredith asks, staring down at her. Hawke maintains her glare, stares back.  
> “No,” she says, “I am merely pointing out their incompetence.”

They had knocked. It was so polite, so genial, how could it be anything other than a patient in need? Karl had opened the door with a smile. Of course, the Templars couldn’t abide two witches working their craft so freely in Darktown. Without a Templar to watch them, how could they be sure they weren’t poisoning the people with their magic? They wanted to make an example. Karl opened the door with a smile. A _smile_. He’d give anything to see it again.

The funeral was meant to be small. Instead, countless folk came to give their respect to the one who had helped them so much and so often. He could only stand beside the coffin, still as a stone, his hands clenched into fists. So many words offered. Not from her though. She went to stand by his side and took his hand in silence and in sweetness.

She didn’t say anything like the rest. There were no empty words, meaningless sentences. Karl was not in a better place. He was not at peace. He suffered when they murdered him. She allowed him the full scope of his grief. No excuses, no platitudes, simply silence and comfort. There was nothing fair in it, after all. Hawke understood. Amazing, what simple understanding can do.

The discussions started over late night glasses of whiskey, the clock ticking on the mantle, the fire dying low. She found the same faults in the Templars that he did. Side by side on the couch, her face so fierce and close to his. Blue eyes that held the same sort of wish for vengeance. Karl had loved her as much as he did. The esteemed Lady Hawke was a constant presence in the clinic, lending aid where she could. She loved Kirkwall almost as much as she loved her friends. They needed to be protected. Avenged.

It began hypothetical, turned serious. Hawke acquired maps of the city, located Templar strongholds. Anders had quietly connected with the existing resistance, embedded them within it. Leaders were identified and marked. Anders could feel the itch in his blood, the boiling in his bones. With Hawke’s help, the Templars would be brought down. Until they weren’t.

A dog had come to Kirkwall, and in his footsteps, his master. With him he brought distraction. With him he brought the thralls. With him he brought death. Carver and Bethany lost in an instant. With them, went Hawke. Bodahn had come to the clinic bearing bad news, whispers of trouble. He found Hawke in the cellar with the broken body of her brother, a knife in her hands and black in her eyes.

He’d never seen a witch shake their demon off before. If there was one who would do it, of course it would be Hawke. Too late to save her mother. Composed, poised, neat and orderly. Shoulders squared, chin held high. Blue eyes that burned. She’d always looked best in black. They’d bonded even deeper still through a shared fever of anger and loss.

He could only watch as her attentions shifted to a different cause. The Templar threat was ignored, replaced by a vampiric one. He accepted the distraction, her need to accomplish something in the name of her family. He understood, same as she had once done for him. The Templars would always be there. It could wait, of course it could. She had come to him with Fenris on her arm, telling him of Templars stuffed full of demons. The resistance was moving without them. He ached to be a part of it.

He could only watch as her affections shifted to someone else. Her favorite color was always red. It became green. He wondered if she realized it changed when they first began contemplating recruiting Fenris. He could see her slipping further and further away from him. It hurt more than he expected.

Anders sighs, places the last jar upon the shelf. He stares at all the murky liquids, labelled in his hand. At the few remaining in the back, in Karl’s neat script. There are some even with Hawke’s familiar swoops and whirls. Karl is gone. Hawke never comes to the clinic anymore. He’s lonelier than he likes to admit.

When he had heard of the position of personal physician to the Knight-Commander, he had taken it in a heartbeat. They were doing things that were likely to attract the attention of the Templars. They were interfering in their business, killing marks before the Templars could. Never, not on one occasion, had Meredith ever treated him with kindness. He was a tool to be used. Once his work was finished, he would be discarded.

He took measures to ensure that would never happen. A drop in her morning coffee. Not enough to kill, but enough to keep her sickly and weak. He could have told Sebastian that the arrest was coming, like last time. He could have told Aveline. He could have told anyone… he should have told Hawke. In truth, he was tired of waiting. Her flame had disappeared, doused by Fenris and his affections. He hated admitting he was jealous.

 _Fenris_ was the most important thing to _her_. An admission when she thought she might die. He hated how much it stung. He hated how Fenris stayed by her side, a softness and a worry in him that Anders had never seen before. He hated how obvious it was, what was between them. It was evident in just a glance. What he hated the most was the nights he’d spent thinking of her, thinking of them together.

He was ashamed of it, how often she slipped into his thoughts. He leans his head against the shelf, forces himself not to think of that right now. He should be heading for the Gallows, where they’d be taking her to trial. He’s spoken to the resistance. They know what to do. Hawke would have no choice but to fight with them. He knows she might never forgive him, knowing what he and Orsino have planned.

It’s coincidental when Sebastian appears at the door in a heaving panic. “The Templars have taken Hawke,” Sebastian tells him, his hands crushing on Anders’s shoulders. “We need to get to the Gallows, speak in her defense.” Anders nods.

“Let’s go, then,” Anders says. He wonders if Hawke will know he knew of the coming arrest. She always seems to see through him. He does his best not to wear the guilt on his sleeve. Sebastian has a carriage waiting, racing towards the Gallows. Publically, it was nothing but a Chantry owned building. Privately, it was a nightmare.

A courthouse where they tried the witches. A dormitory to keep the Templars. A prison to lock the witches they deemed dangerous away. It was hard not to hear of the horrors that came out of the Gallows. Being tranquil there was almost a blessing. Better to not have your mind instead of losing it through whatever practices the Templars preferred from day to day.

The others are waiting for them on the steps of the Gallows. Aveline stands as proud as a pillar, her arms crossed and face cloudy. Well respected within the city, the Guard-Captain had made a reputation for herself since taking the position. Harder on the guards, fiercer in her protection. The streets had become a safer place under her watch. Hawke helped make it so, pointing out the threats only those with magical talent could see. Anders had no doubt that with Danarius gone, Aveline would have the city wrapped up with a neat little bow in little time.

Varric stands by her side, rubbing his brows. He and Aveline were no doubt friends, but not even Varric cut her slack. His writing in the Kirkwall Herald was scathing, critical of all things. Aveline took it well in stride, like friendly criticism. After all, it encouraged people to go to Varric, slip him the information they did not feel comfortable giving the guard. Somehow, the information would end up in Aveline’s lap anyway.

Varric did his best to keep the headlines positive, to keep the city peaceful and hopeful. He had secured many connections for himself, his hand in every pocket. There was no invitation he could not get, no sliver of news he could not slice. His life had gotten decidedly weirder when Hawke brought him into the realm of witches and Templars. He accepted it all with a shrug.

Fenris is pacing on the steps, his hands clasped behind his back, mouth sour and frown heavy. He looks up when the carriage stops in front of the Gallows. From the moment they began looking through his background and relationship, Anders always felt like he was a lost child. Every movement scattered and without purpose, drifting from place to place. Ending up in Hawke’s lap. She’d given him a sort of purpose he’d never had before.

Even Anders was not outside Hawke’s sphere of influence. Isabela, Merrill, Sebastian and countless others. She’d stitched together their little group. Only she could see such misfits and troublemakers, call them friends. His mood only worsens as he gets out of the carriage, watches Sebastian pay the driver.

“The trial has already started,” Aveline says. “They won’t let us in without a representative from the Chantry.” Her eyes flick towards Sebastian.

“Yes,” Sebastian says, climbing the steps, “I’ll get us in.” Fenris steps into line beside him, his fists clenched at his side. Sebastian places a hand on Fenris’s shoulder, tells him something that Anders cannot hear. At any rate, the stiff line of Fenris’s shoulders soften, and he’s no longer digging nails into his palms. Sebastian smiles, nods at him.

Anders doesn’t dislike Fenris, not in the least. He doesn’t particularly like him either. It was complicated. There was too much of Hawke wrapped up in his feelings. He couldn’t deny the way Hawke smiled at him. The ease in which she carried herself now. She’s wrung out her grief, her anger, her loss, filled up the void with him. In a way that Anders never could. Still.

She was his Hawke before she was Fenris’s.

Sebastian is speaking quickly in a quiet tone to a clerk at the desk in the main hall. Urgency lingers in his tone. They’re lead to a large door, the place of Hawke’s trial. Marble floors, stone walls. Electric lights that buzz. A static silence that pierces every pore.

Their footsteps echo in the courtroom. It is large, with vaulted ceilings. Grand arches cross the ceiling, great pillars reaching upwards. A Templar stands before each pillar. There are a few seats in the room, but only few. At the very end of the room sits a raised bench that spans the length of the wall. Behind this desk, this bench, sits three figures. They stare down at the accused before them.

An old woman sits in the very center, clothed in the frock of the Chantry. Anders realizes with a start that it’s the Grand-Cleric herself. Elthina is listening to all of them speaking, and saying nothing herself. She was the one who appointed Meredith to the position of Knight-Commander. It was Elthina who allowed the abuses against witches to continue. There she is also silent. Meredith sits to her left, while Orsino is seated on the right.

There is a singular table before the bench. There is no chair for Hawke it sit. Instead, her wrists are shackled and bound to the table. She is forced to look upwards before her accusers, her judge and jury. Anders wouldn’t let them be her executioners. As they make their way to the seats, Hawke is hotly defending herself. “I have done what your Templars could not. They fail once and do not try again,” the anger barely veiled in her voice.

Meredith does not have such control, wears her own fury as plain as any dress. Her face is hard as stone as she looks down at Hawke. Her hands are clasped so tightly together that her knuckles are white. “Are you suggesting that the Templars are deliberately ignoring these threats?” Meredith asks, staring down at her. Hawke maintains her glare, stares back.

“No,” she says, “I am merely pointing out their incompetence.” A smile quirks its way across Orsino’s face before he coughs, hides it behind a hand. There is only one person already in the audience, behind Hawke. Anders cocks his head, recognizes him as a Templar. Cullen with his arms crossed, eyes narrowed, looking between his commander and Hawke.

They shuffle in beside him, Cullen only giving them a polite nod. Meredith never takes her eyes from Hawke’s face. “You dare –” Meredith’s nostrils flare at Hawke’s flippant impertinence, her blatant disrespect for the office of the Knight-Commander.

“There are days when I feel I am doing more for the witches than the Templars,” Hawke continues, her voice overriding Meredith’s. “You knew the threat Danarius held and yet you allowed him to kill without discrimination. You let his night-witch operate freely. Even when she killed the Templars you sent after her, you did not move. I was the one who had to clean up the mess you helped create.”

“What is the point of the Templars if they don’t even do their jobs?” Hawke spits out. Meredith is practically shaking. Orsino is fit to burst with laughter. Elthina sighs, her hands clasped on the desk, leans forward.

“Lady Hawke. Your glib does you no credit. We are not here to debate the merits or faults of the Templars. We are here to determine whether you are innocent of the charges levied against you,” she says.

“False charges, fabricated by Meredith. She would have all witches in the dirt if she could,” Hawke says, her frown now turning towards Elthina. Orsino turns serious, looks at Anders.

“You were seen,” Meredith says, “fighting Danarius in the streets shortly before he was murdered.” Anders feels Fenris shift beside him, staring at Hawke’s back with an unreadable expression. Something akin to surprise, relief?

“Fighting for my life,” Hawke says. “He would have taken another if I had not fought.” A blissful sigh from Anders’s left, Fenris running a hand through his hair. “You knew exactly what he was and did nothing!”

“He was a visitor from Tevinter, a diploma-”

“A vampire. You knew Hadriana was a night-witch, you had Templars practically stalking her until she killed them,” Hawke says. At that, Elthina turns towards Meredith, narrows her eyes.

“The fact remains that,” Meredith starts, but again Hawke slices through her sentence.

“The fact remains that I was under attack. I defended myself with the only means I knew how. If self-defense is a crime, why am I not being interrogated by the guard instead?” Hawke says. “If the Templars had acted on the information they had, I wouldn’t need to be here.”

“Lady Hawke,” Elthina says, “if Danarius was as powerful as you claimed, how did you defeat him? A normal witch would not have been able to do such a thing. Only a night-witch.” Hawke looks up at the Grand-Cleric. Her hair is slipping from the messy bun at the back of her head. Anders loves the way it slips down, cradles her face. She’s in black again. He’s always loved the way she looks in black.

“I was not alone,” Hawke says. Aveline coughs, rises from her seat.

“Grand-Cleric. I can testify to her innocence. I was one of the ones who helped kill the vampire,” Aveline says. Elthina thinks for a moment, gives her a respectful nod.

“Thank you Guard-Captain. It means much, such words coming from you.” Aveline clasps her hands in her lap, giving a smaller nod back. Meredith can see Hawke slipping from her grasp, begins to sputter. Orsino is still looking at Anders. With a heavy sigh, Anders pulls himself up to stand.

“Too long have witches faced scrutiny from Templars who only seek power. They take pleasure in ruling over us. They take pleasure in beating us down. Innocent men and woman are killed simply because a Templar wills it,” Anders says.

“Young man, this is not the time for a moral debate-” Elthina says.

“When is a good time for you?” Anders demands. “Witches have been suffering for an age, with no one to defend them! You know of all the broken people in this dungeon of yours? Where is your moral obligation to them?” Hawke has turned, gaping at him over her shoulder. He sees a tremor in her hands. He knows she can feel what’s coming. The doors to the courtroom open. Orsino and Anders have amassed a veritable army. Witches stream in, fill the hall. “We demand that Knight-Commander step down. The witches can govern themselves,” Anders says.

Meredith rises to her feet, a hand on the sword in her belt. “Blasphemy! Treason! Night-witches at every corner,” she screeches. The Templars already in the room are scrambling, but more are entering, the crowd of witches having attracted too much attention. Hawke closes her eyes. She knows what vials rest in their belts. Fenris vaults over the benches, goes to Hawke’s side. Cullen is still sitting, a hand over his eyes.

“Blondie,” Varric says slowly, “what have you just dragged me into.” Aveline is looking at him with wide eyes before she too makes her way to Hawke. Elthina is shouting, demanding calm, but Orsino is opening a book, beginning an incantation. Anders is slow to walk behind Hawke and the others.

“His markings were never going to be of use to a vampire,” Anders says, “they were always meant to be powered by magic.” Hawke whirls, pulling at the chains, trying to worm her way out of them.

“What are you talking about Anders? You can stop this before it’s too late,” she pleads. Anders shakes his head. Orsino’s voice is growing louder. Fenris goes still. Then he cries out, doubling over from pain. The markings on his skin begin to glow, even as he yells. “Anders!” Hawke practically melts the metal off of her, dropping to Fenris’s side.

The change is already beginning, the shift evident. “We need his help,” Anders says, “if we’re going to kill the Templars.” The man is still screaming. The wolf begins to roar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost at the end now loves. Always happy to [chat at my tumblr.](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)


	19. Blood of my Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He thinks that if he lets go of her, he might die. He might lose himself. He holds onto her harder, unable to stop the claws that pierce skin.

It’s a fog, all of it. It permeates through skin and sinew, in blood and bone. His vision blurred, his face pressed against her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around him. She’s leaned over him, close as she can be, whispering words to him. He can’t hear it. Fenris is practically panting, mouth open and eyes wide. Only one of his eyes is yellowed, the other an achingly familiar green. His fangs have come in hard and he cannot bear to close his mouth for the pain. He clings desperately to Hawke, unable to let go.

Whatever they are doing to him, it’s only half working. One of his arms has changed, a lanky thing of muscle and fur, claws that bite into Hawke’s shoulder as he holds onto her. She holds to him equally panicked, and does not let go. There’s red in his vision, pumping through his veins, and he cries out at the effort of holding it back.

He can feel it, her fighting whatever’s stirring inside of him. Fighting against whatever they’re doing to him. He thinks that if he lets go of her, he might die. He might lose himself. He holds onto her harder, unable to stop the claws that pierce skin, the human arm that trembles around her waist. “Fen.” The first word that makes it through the fog. A hand running through his hair, resting warm at the back of his neck.

The Templars have formed a wall before the approaching witches. Meredith has long since risen from her chair, sword out. Elthina, trapped, can only call for calm. Orsino does not break his chant, his eyes clouded over and lost in it, his finger on the page. Hawke has her hands fisted into Fenris’s vest, and her head whips around over her shoulder.

Anders is standing stone still, watching as Meredith descends, and the sword in her hand. “Anders,” Hawke says, “whatever you’re doing to him, you need to stop.” Anders’s gaze slowly shifts to her. To Fenris, shuddering and crying her arms.

“Please,” she’s pleading and his heart breaks for it, “you’re hurting him.” Aveline has Varric and Sebastian protectively behind her, assessing the situation. Cullen takes his place beside her, the frown hanging low, the worry in the curve of his lips. Meredith is heading for the front, where her Templars stand at the ready. The witches outnumber them, block their escape. But they didn’t know, they didn’t _know_.

“It isn’t me,” Anders tells her. “We need his help. We need your help.”

“Then you should have just asked me!” Hawke snaps. He knew she would be furious. With him ruled out, she looks for the true culprit. It’s not among the screaming witches, at the static of magic at the back of the room. She settles on Orsino, narrows her eyes.

“Tell him to stop,” she says.

“I can’t.” The witches are gathering their power. All others can feel it like a buzz in their brains, an uneasy rock at the pit of their stomachs. Gun and metal, witchbane and worse, all ready to fire back.

“Get him to stop or I will!” She knows it’s about to turn ugly. All she wants to do is protect her family, keep Fenris safe. Anders looks at her helplessly. Fenris whimpers when one of her hands leaves him. She’s reaching for Orsino with more than just flesh, yanking and dragging, ripping and tearing. Orsino’s chant stutters, dividing his attention to blocking her power. She only snarls and pulls harder.

She hauls him from his seat, away from the book and away from the chant, his body flying towards her. She immediately slams him to the ground. She keeps him there, her magic like a weight on his chest.

Fenris’s grip on her suddenly loosens. The claws that once held to her shoulder now drop to the floor, a human arm in the sleeve of a shredded shirt. His eyes are closed, his breathing low, slumped in her arms. His markings have finally stopped glowing. She no longer feels the fight in him. “Fenris? Fenris!” Unconscious and unresponsive, she won’t be able to carry him from the battle herself.

“You can’t stop it,” Orsino tells her, “it’s too late. We must fight!” The last word he roars out, directed not at them, but at the witches at the back of the room. A handful of Templars against at least a dozen witches. Meredith, whose voice is raw from barking orders, wiping blood from the side of her mouth. Elthina shaking her head.

“If you want something, you have to fight for it,” Anders says. “We’re going to change Kirkwall. We’re going to make things better.” Witches shriek as the first vial is flung. Orsino and Anders immediately look startled, taken aback, watching as the magic flounders in the ranks. Hawke presses a kiss to Fenris’s head.

“Aveline,” Hawke motions the others to her side. “Please.” Without a word, Aveline is flipping the table that once chained Hawke onto its side. Together they drag Fenris behind it, Sebastian dropping to his knees and promising Hawke he’d watch over him. Varric does the same. Cullen helps Hawke to her feet. Attentions elsewhere, Orsino finds his moment, scrambles away to stand with the witches. Anders wavers.

Even without their magic, these witches are not so helpless. Three have swords of their own, pressing against the Templars. The true goal is Meredith, and… Hawke looks behind her, at Elthina. Their escape is blocked by the two sides, locked in combat. They’d never make it through, especially not dragging Fenris with them. A choice needed to be made. Hawke begins to move, a hand in Anders’s vest, pulling him forward with her.

The others, she encloses in a barrier. She looks over her shoulder, smiling at them sadly. Aveline is downright furious, beating her fists against the barrier. The first friend she made, on the ship to Kirkwall. They’d navigated the new city together. She’d never been prouder than when Aveline made Captain. She was so strong, so protecting, and so perfect for the role. Aveline is shouting something, but it’s muffled by the barrier.

She knows that Sebastian is still bent by Fenris’s side. The first she’d confessed her troubles with her demon to. He didn’t judge her, he was only kind. He took her hand, told her how strong she was. How he knew she would fight it and that she would win. He didn’t like many witches, but he trusted her. Varric she could always turn to for a smile. He isn’t smiling now, watching his friend walk into danger. Always ready with a tale, a joke, laughter crafted especially for her.

Cullen has his eyes narrowed, watching her go. Misguided, in the wrong profession, but those things could be changed. He was reasonable, most of all, and listened to her. A strange thing, for a Templar to listen to a witch. He may fight, argue his side, but if the other side makes more sense, he listens. She found that admirable.

Aveline is still shouting, still yelling, one fist against the barrier. “You’re going to help us?” Anders asks eagerly. She sighs, rubs her brow. How long had it been since they last sat in front of the fire, glasses in their hands, discussing a situation very near to this one? They had laid such careful plans, little traps. Meant solely for the Templars, to keep the other witches safe.

Now, here they stood, all together under the same roof. “It was Orsino, wasn’t it?” Hawke asks, “Who found the spell to manipulate Fenris. Who told you about this trial. Who gathered the other witches. Who said this was to be the time to make a stand.”

“Yes,” Anders says. She should have seen it sooner. Widening the rift between the witches and the Templars would only destabilize Kirkwall even more, making it easier for the taking. She wonders when Danarius gave Orsino the book, the keys to a broken spell, convinced him that a werewolf was exactly what he needed to win.

Things needed to change, and the only way to do that was a difference in leadership. No more excuses, no more platitudes, no more ignorance. The walls and pillars are made of stone. The arches above are made of wood. Hawke lifts her hand, sets them all ablaze. Elthina rises to her feet behind that platform of hers, unable to ignore it any longer. It’s too late. She’s been ignoring them for too long.

Hawke turns to Anders. “Orsino dies as well,” she tells him.

“He’s the leader of the resistance, we need him to-”

“No,” Hawke says. “He’s an easily manipulated fool. You’d be better at this than him. You knew, didn’t you, that this was a bad idea. This could have been done better. The Anders I know would have done better.” Anders has the decency to look away, to clench his fists. “You’re the leader of the resistance now.”

She’s almost sorry when she does it. She thinks of all the tranquil witches, trapped in a cage, experimented on. The long forgotten husks that linger in the dungeon below. Karl, in Anders’s arms, his eyes wide. She and Bethany under constant watch, constant scrutiny. It’s too late to go back. She reaches upwards, pulls one of the arches down. Elthina isn’t fast enough to get out of the way.

She knows not to look behind her. She knows what kind of face Sebastian will have, what kind of face Aveline and Varric will have. She wonders if they’ll forgive her. Meredith is screaming bloody murder while Orsino stalks his way to the Knight-Commander. Hawke clears the way, with Anders at her side, sweeping away both Templars and witches just the same.

It’s an easy thing, their magic bouncing between each other so familiarly. She keeps a hand on his arm, so that the magic may sway between them like a ship rocking in an untamable sea. Anders is healing the witches as best he can, while Hawke keeps an eye on Meredith and Orsino. Meredith’s nose is bleeding, backed into a corner by Orsino. He takes up one of the Templar’s discarded swords.

“You did this,” Orsino tells her. “You forced our hand.” He wields it like the foreign thing it is, clasped in both hands, pointed forward at Meredith.

“You needed to be watched, to be controlled. I should have killed you all sooner,” Meredith says. She wields her sword with confidence, but her arms are shaking. Her nose hasn’t stopped bleeding. Weakened and ill, just so, they’re on equal ground.

The fire has caught, and now spreads. The smoke is thick in the air, and Hawke is doing her best to clear it away. The Gallows will burn, will fall. Meredith screeches forward, her sword raised above her head like an axe, ready to chop down at Orsino. He moves, just barely, and her momentum impales her upon Orsino’s own sword. She drops her own sword to touch at the metal in her gut with confusion in her eyes. This was never a possibility for her. Hawke looks away. Two down. One more.

“The book,” Orsino hisses as he drops the sword from his grasp, heading back to the front of the room, past Fenris and the others.

“Anders,” Hawke says, getting his attention. With meaning, she looks towards Orsino. Anders clenches his jaw and nods. He follows after Orsino. The remaining witches have broken off, and the Templars are scattered without their leader. They’re circling each other but not attacking, all of them feeling the same sort of dread. Hawke gives them a path.

She shoves at those large doors with her power, those stately things, breaks the bindings upon it. They look towards the open hallway, the freedom it offers, and both witch and Templar alike take it. The hall empties, people flooding out. Only a few more to go. Hawke turns, makes her way towards her barrier. She brings down most of it, but keeps them shielded from the flames that lick, the debris that’s falling, the smoke that threatens to choke.

“Hawke,” Aveline’s hands crushing on her shoulders. “We need to leave, get you out of here.” Hawke almost wants to cry at that. Despite all the things she’s done, all the things she will do, Aveline still cares. Hawke smiles, a hand on Aveline’s arm. Sebastian has tears in his eyes, but wipes them away quickly. He has an arm around Fenris’s waist, hauling him to his feet with Cullen’s help. They carry him between them.

“Get them out of here Aveline. I need to help Anders,” Hawke says. Aveline is shaking her head, voicing concern. All it takes is one pleading look with Varric. He sighs at Hawke’s glance, before putting a hand on Aveline’s back. Gently, he guides her away. She hates the way Fenris’s feet drag on the ground, the way Aveline looks over her shoulder. She keeps them protected as they make their way out. She watches as white hair disappears around the corner. Safe.

“We need to take it further, root out every last Templar. We’d be more powerful as night-witches. We can eradicate the order entirely!” Orsino is telling Anders, the book under his arm. “The Kirkwall witches must be sacrificed in order to start the flame that will spread across Thedas.” Hawke and Anders stand shoulder to shoulder, the same grim line in their mouths. Hawke raises the barrier when Orsino tries to shove them away. Anders unleashes the lightning.

He doesn’t express the same confusion that Meredith. No shock in his eyes like Elthina’s. Simple acceptance, his eyes growing dim as he collapses to the floor. Hawke is happy to let the book burn by his side. Anders sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and comes away with the band that holds it all back.

“I’d forgotten,” she says with a smile, “how good your hair looks loose.” Fingers reach out, find the few stray locks that have fallen across his face. She gently tucks them behind his ear, lets her hand rest lightly on his cheek. Her thumb moves across his cheekbones and he shudders out a sigh, closes his eyes.

“They won’t just let us go,” Anders says.

“I’ll figure something out,” Hawke tells him softly, “but you won’t be in Kirkwall for that.” Debris falls on her barrier, harmlessly sliding off. The flames grow nearer, the smoke thicker, but the barrier persists and does not falter. “I had arrangements made, a long time ago, for if something ever went truly wrong. There’s a safe house waiting for you in Ostwick, along with a stash of coin.”

“You think of everything, don’t you?” Anders says.

“Someone has to.” She steps forward, cups his face in her hands. “Oh Anders. You’ve done so much. Worked so hard,” she sighs. She moves closer, her forehead touching his. “I’m sorry this isn’t over for you yet.”

“It will never be over,” Anders says, one of his hands over hers, thumb brushing against her knuckles. “Not as long as witches still remain.”

“I know,” she sighs once again. “I’m sorry I can’t help you more. I’m sorry I wasn’t helping you sooner. I wasn’t there for you like I should have been.”

“You had cause.”

“That’s no excuse. We made a promise, and I failed you. I should have been there. Maybe then, something like this wouldn’t have had to happen.” Anders squeezes his eyes closed.

“I’m sorry, about –”

“I know.” Hawke smiles at him, plants a soft kiss on his cheek. She presses a hand to his chest. “You were given this for a reason. An angel chose you for a purpose. I know you’ll put it to good use. I’m so proud of you. You’re going to change the world.”

* * *

Fenris wakes with a start, coming to with a heaving gasp. They were gathered on the street, watching as the Gallows burns down. Sebastian kneels beside him, a hand on his shoulder, concern in his brow. “My friend, are you alright?” Fenris shrugs off his touch, uses the wall behind him to help him to his feet.

“Where’s Hawke?” He follows Sebastian gaze back to the burning building. Fenris’s eyes widen, and he begins to walk forward. Cullen stops him with a simple hand on his chest, a shake of his head. There’s a dark shape moving in the entrance way. Hawke lifts her skirts, makes her way down the steps of the Gallows. Only then does Cullen let him go.

Fenris races towards her, his arms outstretched. Hawke laughs as he half runs into her, winding her arms over his shoulders, allowing him to hold her tight. They both smell of smoke, of ash and ruin, but Fenris presses his face into the crook of her neck and holds her closer. A hand around her waist, fingers splayed on her back, he breathes deeply with relief.

He’d thought, once, that the world would be better off without witches, without _this_ witch. How wrong he was. Now, he wonders at how much he needs her. He’d never allowed himself the luxury of thinking about the future before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One left <3 To be posted this Friday.   
> You can always find me at [my tumblr](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/).


	20. Reborn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Color me intrigued. Am I to guess at the subject of this offer?”  
> “A proposal,” he says.

She runs her fingers through his hair, smiling softly. Sunlight spills into the room, filling it with a gentle glow so early in the morning. He tilts his head upwards to look at her, then leans back down to press a kiss against her chest. She’s half sitting up, head leaning against the headboard, his arms around her waist. “I want,” Fenris says, “at least two years of peace.”

“Are you demanding that of me or the world?” Hawke laughs.

“Both,” he grumbles, resting his head back down. The wound in her belly has long since healed, the danger passed, and only the scar remains. There’s still a tainted circle through and through in the center of her hand, but it doesn’t bother her anymore. She runs her hand over his shoulders, down as much of his back as she can reach. Her legs are tangled around him, keeping him surrounded and safe.

The Gallows have been swept away clean, the Templar order restructured. Cullen is working together with Aveline to bring the Templars into the guard and away from the Chantry. They call him the Knight-Commander although he does not want the title. He plans to leave Kirkwall as soon as he is able, a particular job offer awaiting him in the South.

Witches have sunk into obscurity, back into hiding, encouraged by their unofficial leader. Hawke receives letter after letter from Anders, tracking his progress across the Free Marches. Kirkwall has been blissfully peaceful for months now, thanks to Aveline’s due diligence and Sebastian’s redistribution of Chantry funds. Using his influence, has directed coin once used for the Templars towards the homeless and the poor. The tunnels in Darktown are slowly emptying.

What exactly happened in the Gallows that day have been reduced to rumors. Those who were there don’t talk about it, and so people can only speculate. It means that Hawke is able to walk free and to put her coin to good use, helping where she can. It also means that Fenris gets to spend the mornings with her, wrapped in each other, her fingers threading through his hair.

“I have something for you,” she says. He voices his complaints when she begins to move, untangling herself from his embrace. She sits on the edge of the bed, opens the nightstand drawer. From it, she pulls a shining thing. “I thought you might want another one.” She places the locket in his open hand. Almost an exact replica of the others, engraved with a wolf and a hawk. The inside, lined with red velvet on one side, a photograph of her on the other.

He quickly puts it around his neck, metal cold against his chest. Then he leans forward to kiss her cheek, wrap his arms around her and pull her back down to the bed. His arm under her neck, wrapped around her, hand resting on her shoulder. Her back against his chest, his other hand resting on her hip. He kisses the freckles at her shoulder, her neck, “thank you Marian,” he murmurs against her ear. “I have something for you as well.”

“Mhmm, and what’s that?”

“Later,” he says, hand slipping from her hip to her belly, and further down still. Her hands curl around his arm, smiling as she bites her bottom lip. He kisses the shell of her ear, breath warm on her skin, practiced fingers at her sex. They’ve spent a lot of time in bed since the Gallows, finding every perfect spot, every perfect way to touch.

He’s been thinking of what he’d like to do. This sudden stop in fighting, in running, has given him pause. He had always thought he’d spend his days alone. He imagines Hawke going to Ferelden and suddenly he sees himself going with her. _If there is a future to be had_. He’s not forgotten their promise.

She stutters out little sighs and moans, subtly moving her hips backwards against hip. He takes her meaning easily, a hand reaching down to position himself at her entrance. He savors the way she gasps when he’s inside of her, the way her hands hold tighter at his arm as he grinds his hips against hers. His forehead presses against her shoulder, closing his eyes as they move against each other. It’s difficult not to lose himself in it each and every time. _I love, my love_.

Afterwards, he stays wrapped up in the blankets as he watches her get ready. She sits unclothed at her dressing table, hands at her hair, winding and binding, pulling raven-haired locks back into perfection. He appreciates the way she sits so straight, the curve of her back, the freckles that spatter there. He appreciates it even more when she turns, gives him a smile that steals his breath away. She dresses herself in a soft thing of creamy white and black, lace at her neck.

She sits with her elbow on the dining room table, her chin resting on her palm as she reads the morning paper. A smile always quirks at her lips when she reads Varric’s name under various articles. Her hand moves away from her chin to pick at strawberries, at toast, to sip at her morning tea. Fenris rubs his face, eats nervously at a piece of toast. He doubts she’ll say no, but he worries anyway.

“I have something for you, remember?” He says and she immediately drops the paper, hands folding on her lap as her eyes light up.

“I do indeed. And what is this mysterious something?” She asks, leaning forward with a playful smile. He pulls a small box from his vest pocket, places it on the table. He keeps his hand over it, does not move it towards her.

“An offer,” he says.

“Color me intrigued. Am I to guess at the subject of this offer?”

“A proposal,” he says, finally slides the box across the table towards her. Her smile falters and she hesitates in reaching for it. When she finally does, her hands tremble. She opens it to find a ring of gold, a ruby at its center. He worries that it is perhaps not beautiful enough for her. He did the best he could, on what he could afford. He’s always liked the way red looks on her.

“Fenris,” she says as she pulls the ring from the box. “ _Fenris_.” He rises from his chair, makes his way around the table towards her. He kneels down before her as he takes the ring from her grasp, reaches for her left hand. She allows him to slip the ring upon her finger. “Fenris, Fenris, Fenris.” Her hands cup his face, and she buries him in wet kisses, happy laughter. She sinks to her knees along with him, arms around each other.

* * *

Halfway across the city, Aveline is waking up next to Donnic, stretching her arms in the air. She goes through her series of morning exercises before taking a small bath and dressing. She affixes the sigil of the guard to the breast of her jacket. Most people she passes in the street give her a respectful nod, a grateful smile even. Her breath is visible in the morning air, her hands shoved into her pocket. She heads not for the station, but for a door at the corner of a Hightown street.

Varric looks up from his typing as she enters. “Morning Captain.” He reaches into one of the drawers of his desk, passes her a folder. “The one for this week,” he says. She flips through it nonchalantly, all the little whispers that Varric has collected. Aveline sighs as she looks at them all.

“I wonder how effective it would be for me to publish an article on crime in the city,” Aveline says. Varric barks out laughter.

“You? Write an article?”

“It wouldn’t be hard. It would only be one word. _Stop_.” Varric leans back in his chair as he roars with laughter. He fumbles with a different drawer, motions at Aveline to sit.

“Drink?” he asks, pulling out a bottle and giving it a tempting shake.

“I really shouldn’t,” she says, even as she sits and reaches for the glass he offers.

* * *

“Why am I doing this again?” Isabela complains, an apron around her waist, a soup ladle in her hands. Sebastian gives her a warm smile, passing her a bowl to fill with warm broth.

“You are giving back to your community. It is admirable,” he says, passing her another. All the ones she fills she gives to the person across the table from her. Some poor sod down on his luck, with threadbare mittens and red on his nose. They flock to the Chantry every morning for their breakfast.

“I get that it’s admirable, I just don’t get why you asked me,” she says. Sebastian chortles.

“While rather intoxicated, you confessed to me that you wished to do more for the city,” he tells her.

“Did I? That doesn’t sound like me,” Isabela grumbles, filling another, passing it to a child who could be no older than ten. He gives her a tinny thanks and a toothless smile. She sighs, smiles back. She fills another bowl.

* * *

“I don’t think we’ve forgotten anything,” Hawke says, hands on her hips, looking at all their packed suitcases. “Perhaps I should check one more time.”

“You open those suitcases again and I will divorce you,” Fenris says, settling the last at the door.

“Drat, couldn’t even last until the honeymoon. Whatever will the neighbors think?” He chuckles as he straightens himself, a hand on her waist and a kiss to her cheek. Merrill nervously knots her hands together, eyes passing between the two of them.

“I will look after it properly,” she blurts out. “I promise the house won’t burn down.” Hawke laughs, pinches one of Merrill’s cheeks.

“I know dear. We’ll be back before you know it. Make sure to get out of the house, out of your room, and go see the others,” Hawke says, placing her hands on Merrill’s shoulders. Merrill gives her a grin and a nod. Bodahn dabs a napkin at the corner of his eye.

“Be safe mistress,” he says, clutching it in his hands. The carriage driver and Fenris work together to load up all their luggage, before he and Hawke clamber inside. They sit side by side, their hands winding together. It would be a long trip to Ferelden. She’s promised to take him to the apple tree on the hill in Lothering, and to show him where she once lived. Fenris takes up her hand, presses a kiss to her knuckles. She gives a pleased huff as she leans against him.

* * *

A new photograph sits on the mantle of the Hawke estate. Beside the clock, above the crackling fire. There’s one of Bethany, of Carver, of Leandra. There’s one of Merrill and Isabela, of Aveline and Donnic. Varric and Sebastian, Anders and Karl. This new one has Hawke sitting in a chair, a smile on her face, with Fenris standing behind her. His hand is on her shoulder and her hand over his.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We come, at last, to the end. Thank you to all who have read, who have commented, who have kudos'd and shared with me this journey. You are the reason why I write. I have loved seeing every reaction to every chapter, to the excitement you've had for every update. I am truly lucky to have such amazing readers.  
> You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)


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